The Dragonborn's Husband
by blackberet
Summary: Being married to the Dragonborn isn't all heroic battles and lucrative fetch quests-as Farkas discovers, it also means a lot of waiting around. A multi-chapter slice-of-life story about Farkas's efforts to start a shop and figure out how you navigate married life when your wife is the most famous warrior in Skyrim. And he'd better do it fast. The war is coming to Whiterun.
1. Chapter 1

They started walking just after dawn, stopped just long enough to fight the battle of Farkas's life, and started walking again. His pack feels like it's tripled in weight since morning—because it has. Seventy-five pounds of bones and scales drag down on his back and shoulders. His legs scream as he climbs the steps of Jorrvaskr.

But none of that keeps him from stopping his new bride just outside the door.

"What is it?" she asks.

He shifts the weight of his pack on his shoulders and the rest of his weight on his feet. Realizes he's fidgeting and stands up straight. "Should I carry you?" he asks uncertainly.

He's not sure if that will offend her. But the Dragonborn, the Harbinger of the Companions, the deadliest warrior in Skyrim, laughs and stretches her arms out to him. "Why not?"

Both of them are wearing full armor and packs and weapons that are almost as tall as they are, so they spend the next few awkward minutes trying to figure out how to do it. Luckily it's dark. Eventually Matilda holds Wuuthrad up in front of her body like a draugr, Farkas swings her into a bridal carry, and they take turns fumbling with the great doors of Jorrvaskr before he finally manages to shove a foot in the doorjamb and kick one open long enough for them to get through.

"They're back!" Aela's voice yells, and a roar goes up from the table. They make it two steps before a powerful frontal blow to the legs sends him staggering back against the door. He looks down just in time to see two paws plant themselves on him.

"Down, Meeko," Matilda orders. The dog sits, still wagging his tail with pure joy. Farkas sets her down and they make their way to the table. Everyone else has long since finished dinner, but Tilma rushes to bring what's left on the serving dishes to them—pheasant, cheese, baked potatoes, and his favorite honey nut treats. Neither of them even bothers to heat the food back up. They half-drop their things on the floor next to them and tear into it.

"How were your travels?" Ria asks when they've had enough to slow down.

Matilda pours ale for them both. "Oh, relaxing. Stayed in some charming little inns—"

"We slew a dragon," Farkas says.

Not much impresses these warriors. He's not much for bragging, but it still feels good to watch that stop their drinks midway to their mouths. Their chairs scrape on the floor as they crowd around to hear him better. "Where?" Athis asks.

"Kynesgrove."

Njada pounds her fist on the table. It's the Companions' way of calling out a tall tale without risking a punch in the jaw. "You just happened to pass that way at the right time?"

"Shut up, whelp," Aela says. "Ice brain here's never told a lie in his life."

"Maybe they planned what to say."

"She's the Dragonborn. She can probably sense them."

Farkas pulls one of the scales out of his bag and lets it rest on the table with a thud. That shuts them both up. Aela grabs the nearest bottle of ale and tips the whole thing into Njada's tankard until it spills onto the table. Punishment for guessing wrong. Njada drinks it all in one go and slams the tankard defiantly on the table.

"Tell us about the battle," Ria says eagerly when she finishes.

"We stayed in Riverwood overnight and reached Kynesgrove late in the afternoon," Matilda begins. "It was snowing, windy, bitter cold. The two of us made it up the ridge just in time to see Alduin descend on the burial mound of the dragon there—Sahloknir."

"I know that name," Vilkas says. "The warchief Jorg Helmbolg was said to have killed Sahloknir in the First Era." Torvar reaches over and pounds the table right in front of Vilkas, who snaps back, "I've been reading the old dragon lore."

Matilda nods. "He did. Alduin resurrected Sahloknir as we watched. First the blackened skeleton rose from the earth, then fragments of scale, dragonskin—it came to life again and spoke. And it took to the skies, spraying jets of fire and setting the trees and grass on fire."

"How big compared to a mammoth?" Aela asks.

"Twice the size."

"Couldn't do anything until it got close," Farkas says, picking up the tale. "Armored almost everywhere. Every arrow I landed just made it angry." There's more honor in telling of your shield-sibling's deeds than your own, but he doesn't know what to call her now. _The Harbinger? Matilda? My wife?_ Better just avoid it. "She shouted it out of the sky. Then we could get in and attack its weak spots."

He leaves out the _sound _of it—her voice, but as if a hundred others were joining in—and the massive burst of wind that seemed to fly out from her. The way he stood stunned, couldn't stop staring at her even as the dragon went sprawling in midair and crashed, almost hit him as it skidded along the ground and dug a trench of mud and snow with its body as it went. All the times they'd fought together, he'd never heard her shout before.

Matilda starts talking again. He likes the way she tells stories. She uses her hands almost as much as her voice, waving her tankard around to show what the dragon was doing. He wants to touch her but thinks maybe he shouldn't. When he starts listening again, she's saying, "Farkas threw himself forward and drove his sword into the exposed flesh beneath the dragon's right wing, bending all his weight into the blow until his blade struck scale—and then earth. The dragon roared and spat fire."

She's not telling the part when he underestimated the reach of the tail and it slammed into him. Got stupid trying to avoid the flames. The blow threw him face-first to the ground like a rag doll. If he hadn't had steel plate and padding, he'd have a broken back right now at best. He spat dirt and snow and fumbled for a grip on his sword. Waited for the dragon to slash a claw into his unprotected head and spill his brains out, steaming.

"And then she sank Wuuthrad's spike into one of its eyes," he says.

Matilda drinks, and her free hand comes to rest on his knee. He likes that. It feels comfortable. He sets his hand on hers, slowly—she's still the Harbinger—and lets it stay there.

She doesn't say anything, though, so he decides he should add some description. "The dragon screamed. My ears rang for an hour. It was flailing around, still spitting fire. That was when I understood how you fight a dragon," he adds. "In and out. You have to avoid its attacks and wait for your chance."

"That must have been a challenge," Vilkas drawls. "You'd rather just stand there and bash things."

"Aye." But Matilda was the one who did that this time. Her usual careful movements were gone and she just faced the dragon down. The way you'd face an equal, eye to eye. He explains, "She jumped up and brought Wuuthrad down right in the center of its skull. Used her weight to pin the head down."

"And then Farkas plunged his blade into the skin along the neck and dragged, cutting its throat until the beast was finally dead."

The first thing he noticed was the heat. The corpse was glowing orange. Burning. "Move!" he remembers yelling. But Matilda didn't react. She was just standing there, watching the flames leap up right in front of her, like she was paralyzed. The dragon's body started to curl up black at the edges, disintegrating. Melted the snow all around it. Sent ash floating through the air. He'd hurled himself at her and both of them had slammed into the filthy wet grass with the full weight of their armored bodies, but something was still wrong. Matilda was—glowing, and then there was a wind, and as he watched, the wind went _into _her, and—

"It's all right," she said. Maybe he didn't look convinced, because she repeated it. "It's all right, Farkas. It's just the dragon's soul."

_Just the dragon's soul. _Hours later, he's still dumbstruck by how easily she said it. That was how she must've felt locked in that cell the first time she saw him transform. She must have been remembering the same moment, because she said, "I hope I didn't scare you," just the way he had, and then laughed at her own joke. That was what had convinced him it really was all right.

And then the innkeeper from Riverwood(!) turned up and wanted to talk to her. Neither town has carts for hire and she didn't have a horse; she'd've had to walk all day right on their heels to get there then. He tried to ask Matilda about it, but she whispered that she'd explain later and the two of them wandered off down the hill in the direction of the inn, leaving him standing around in the clearing. A few people from the village were rushing up the other way by then, carrying water and throwing buckets of snow to put out the flaming trees. He helped them for a few minutes until it was clear they could handle the rest on their own. Then he turned back to look at what was left of the dragon.

The skeleton was lying on its side, one wing crushed underneath it. The skin and muscles had burned completely away. It made it easy to work the tip of his sword under one of the armored scales still protecting the spine and pry it off. At first he was worried his sword would break, but with some work, he managed to drive it between the bones and separate them and carve one out. Two more bones and scales made a good-sized pile on the ground—the limit of what he could fit in his pack—and he jumped down to collect them. He wiped as much blood as he could off them on the grass nearby.

Matilda and the innkeeper(?) appeared back over the ridge around the time he finished. "What are you doing?" Matilda asked.

He held up his trophies. "For armor. The Dragonborn should wear dragon armor."

She laughed and made a joke. He doesn't remember what it was. But he does remember what the probably-not-really-an-innkeeper said: "The Dragonborn's husband." And she clapped him on the back. "Hope you're as tough as you look. You'll need to be."

"Quite a tale," Vilkas is saying. Farkas nods. He's still thinking about what that woman said, though. He doesn't know why that stuck in his mind so much. But he's tired, and full, and warm, and his family is gathered around him and his dog is napping peacefully at his feet and he's still holding his wife's hand. So he doesn't puzzle over it for long.

* * *

He lets the others' jokes bounce off of him when they finally get up and make their way to bed. Tilma laid out the water for washing in Matilda's room—the Harbinger's room—but he carries the bucket back to his and they stay there, half on top of each other because his bed's too narrow for them to be side by side. Still feels wrong to sleep in Kodlak's old bed.

They make it two nights more before he starts to hear grumbling from the other Companions, and Vilkas takes him aside. "Brother," he says. It takes him longer than usual to choose his next words. "Newlyweds should have their own house."

So they buy one. It's a small house in the Plains District, next to Warmaiden's. Farkas can't remember living anywhere other than Jorrvaskr, but he likes the place from the minute Matilda unlocks the door and laughingly suggests she carry him through it this time. It's a good size for two people and a dog. It's barely a minute's run from the Companions' mead hall. You could crowd a few shield-siblings around the fire for drink and song. The furniture is well made and simple. It's how a house should be.

"A good house," he calls down to her from upstairs. "You chose well."

She calls back, "It was the only free house in town! But let's say it's my good taste."

"What should we do with the spare room up here? Armor stands?" he asks, pushing the door open.

There's a loud cough from inside the room. Immediately Farkas's sword is in his hands. A woman jumps up from the chair, picking up a shield as she moves and spinning around to block his blade with a loud crash.

Matilda rushes up the stairs behind him. "Farkas, you remember my housecarl, Lydia."

He does, now that her name has been brought to mind. Other than at the wedding, he never got a good look at her; her armor's more familiar than her face. Still doesn't explain what she's doing in their house, though. "Uh. Sorry," he says, awkwardly sheathing his sword.

"Honor to you, my Thane's…husband," she answers. Farkas guesses there's no term for that. No one ever accused him of being good at reading faces—never had to be, when he could tell what people were thinking by smell—but even he knows unimpressed when he sees it. "This is my room. As housecarl to the Thane, it is my duty to live by her side as long as she maintains her residence in Whiterun."

Not literally by her side, Farkas hopes. He shoots a look at Matilda, who's keeping _her _face utterly neutral in that way she has. "Lydia," she says, "could you go into your room for a minute and shut the door? I want to test something."

"Of course, my Thane." Lydia immediately obeys. Matilda grabs him by the hand and pulls him into their bedroom, then shuts that door as well.

"You didn't tell me she was gonna live here," he mutters.

Matilda grimaces. "She didn't exactly give me a chance to say no. But we can argue about that later. Here's what I'm worried about right now."

Without warning, she pushes him to the wall and kisses him hard. He groans involuntarily, and it isn't until she starts pounding the boards over his shoulder with one fist, gently at first and then harder and harder, that his brain catches up and he thinks to wonder what she's doing.

"I can hear. _Everything_," Lydia's voice calls miserably from the other room. Meeko barks.

"Right," Matilda says. "That's the first thing, then."

* * *

Once Matilda sweet-talks Ria into donating her entire bear pelt collection and they line the walls and floors with it to dampen the noise, it turns out that married life suits Farkas better than he thought it would. He likes sitting out back and cleaning their armor together, and showing her how to make bread. He likes hunting and sparring, just the two of them, packing a lunch of smoked meat and cheese and leaving the city before first light. He likes coming home when the day is done and sitting by the fire with her, scratching the dog's ears or playing the lute. He likes the way she curves her body around his as they fall asleep. Even the housecarl's living with him doesn't bother him—much.

It's the waiting he hates.

Barely a week after they buy the place, he finds himself in High Hrothgar, pacing the dark stone hallways. Matilda is out in the courtyard being shouted at by the Greybeards. Every so often he thinks he feels the ground shake underneath him, but they won't let him within earshot. He killed every troll he could find on the first day and there's nothing else to fight this high up. Too cold to wander around outside for no reason. With nothing else to do, he even cracks open one of the few books sitting around, but he can barely read the archaic script and the damned dust makes him sneeze. So he paces. At least it's exercise.

People have told him all his life he's the patient brother, but he doesn't feel like it after two nights with his feet hanging out of an old-man-sized bed. By himself. In the same open hallway as all the others. Listening to old men snore. Trying not to think of his new wife in the next bed. Her soft hair. Warm skin. He wakes everyone up stumbling outside to stuff snow down his neck, but the good thing about a vow of silence is it means no complaints.

They leave on the third morning. He's glad to be with her again. But on the way home, trying to keep his eyes on her back through the swirling snow as she leads the way down seven thousand steps, he thinks, _it will always be this way_. Places he can't go. Not just the Greybeards, but Ulfric's war room, some Jarl's court, a cave full of spiders. He needs something to do other than pace.

The night they get home, he picks up the shield he restored just before they got married and studies it. It's a good piece, he decides. And just like that, he announces, "I've decided to open that shop. Buy and sell whatever's needed."

Matilda looks up from trying to see how many pieces of armor she can cram into the cupboard next to the fire. "That's wonderful. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"I want to do this myself," he answers.

"Then I look forward to it," she says with a smile, and goes back to wedging a pair of steel gauntlets inside a helmet inside a cuirass so she can fit it all in.

She doesn't say anything else. Lydia, eating a loaf of bread at the table, doesn't say anything else. He doesn't say anything else. Meeko keeps on snoring. Wouldn't seem like anything's changed, to look at them. But it has. He's a shopkeeper now.


	2. Chapter 2

It's one thing to say he'll buy and sell whatever's needed, but it doesn't take Farkas long to realize he doesn't know what that is. As far as he's concerned, all you need is sturdy weapons and armor and, once in a while, a good roasted ox leg and a tankard of mead. But when he walks around the market, he sees things that don't fall into those categories, so he asks around the Bannered Mare one night. The answers he gets surprise him. People talk about clothing and boots, jewelry, ales and wines from across Skyrim, books, toys for their children, ingredients for cooking and enchanting. Even horker tusks.

To be fair, he's mostly sure Torvar was screwing with him on the last one.

"So how will this shop of yours be any different from Belethor's, then?" Vilkas wants to know when Farkas explains all this to him in between sword blows in the training yard.

"It's going to be better," Farkas answers immediately.

"And how's that?" Vilkas catches him with a hard thwack in the arm. It'll bruise but it's not broken—took them both a lot of years to learn to hit that balance right with the heavy wooden practice swords they're using. "Belethor may be a sleazy little man, but he has good stock."

Farkas takes a swing. His brother ducks back. "I'll stock rarer items. Good weapons and armor—"

"You can't make better steel than Eorlund."

"I know that. Something different." Farkas tries to think how he can explain what he means by that. It's clear in his head. Like he did with the shield he just finished restoring: distinctive carvings, a better strap that'll be stronger and easier to fit. Well-made to hold up to heavy use, but good-looking too. The items he sells will be special. Different. When someone sees that shield in battle, they'll know who carries it, but they'll also recognize it as his. "People will pass them down to their children," he finally says, swinging again. Low this time. The strike connects and Vilkas stumbles. That's the trick, Farkas knows from long years of experience; he can't beat Vilkas's faster bladework head-on, but stay on his feet until the weighted armor and too-heavy blade start to wear him out and he can win.

Vilkas catches himself, turns and stabs upward at the joints on the sides of Farkas's chestplate. He's a little off. Even a swordpoint would've grazed metal, not pierced the gap. "What else?" he grunts.

Farkas sees his opening and takes it. He pivots and brings his sword down a hair's breadth above the top of Vilkas's skull, then turns it aside and lets it rest on the ground. "Same with the rest of it," he says. Wipes his forehead. "Good pieces. Things that will last."

His brother laughs. "Glad you can fight for what you want, at least. I don't know how you're going to do it, but it's a start."

* * *

He's walking back from Jorrvaskr when something strange happens. He passes the Grey-Mane girl, Eorlund's niece, walking with a girl he doesn't know. "Who's that?" the stranger whispers to Olfina.

That isn't the strange part. Walk around with a giant sword and a faceful of war paint and you come to expect a few stares. The strange part is that instead of answering "One of the Companions," the way people always do when strangers ask that question, Olfina says, "The Dragonborn's husband."

"Oh," the other girl says. And that's it. They all walk on.

He doesn't think much about it first, except _Huh_. But his mind keeps coming back to it, the same way you catch your tongue prodding a sore tooth on its own.

* * *

He starts with the armor and weapons, because that's what he knows best. Whenever he travels, he looks for the right kind of pieces—well made, but worn, the kind someone with enough coin might just replace instead of repairing. He carries a pickaxe when he goes out and mines for ore. When he has enough of a stock built up, he tucks a stack of swords and axes under his arm and goes next door to Warmaiden's.

Adrianne Avenicci is outside as usual, standing at her workbench. She puts her tools down when he gets close. "The Dragonborn's husband. Looking to sell?"

That again. He doesn't know her well, but by the gods, they've drunk in the same tavern once a week since he was big enough for Hulda to sell to him. About age twelve. He shakes his head. "Can I use your equipment?"

"Why not take your gear to Eorlund?"

"He's the only one who works the Skyforge. I want to do this myself."

She wipes sweat from her forehead and looks for the first time at the small arsenal he's carrying. "Are you outfitting an army? Even the Companions don't need that many blades."

"I'm opening a shop."

Adrianne looks at him in silence for a minute, then lets out a short laugh. "Let me make sure I understand this. You want to use _my_ equipment to make pieces that will compete with what _I_ sell. Which you plan to sell next door to _my _shop. That about the size of it?"

Put that way, he can see her point. "The shop will travel with me. I'm not competing with you in Solitude," he argues.

"Fair enough. But I'm talking about when you're here."

She hasn't said no, Farkas notices. Maybe he can make this work, if he can find the right angle. "A septim for every piece I sell in Whiterun Hold that's made on your equipment," he suggests.

Adrianne folds her arms. "A septim? I need a percentage. Twenty percent on everything."

He almost snorts. She must be expecting a counteroffer, unless she really does think he's _that_ stupid. If Matilda were here, she'd put on her most charming smile and haggle like it was a blood sport. But he gives himself time to answer, and in those seconds, he thinks about it. He has other ways of making money; Adrianne Avenicci and her husband don't. And he _is _horning in on their territory. Bad enough they have to complete with Eorlund. So he swallows his first instinct and says, "Fifteen percent."

Adrianne's face breaks into a smile. "You know," she says, "I think we're going to be friends."

* * *

He doesn't know where to start with the rest of it. He can't make most of the other things he wants himself, and just buying up Belethor's stock won't work. Farkas chews on the problem for a few days before a solution hits him—those caravans outside town people talk about. Supposed to have things you can't get in regular shops in Skyrim. He's seen them in passing, but never traded with them. Matilda would know, but she and Lydia are in Windhelm for a few days, so he goes to Jorrvaskr and asks, "Any of you ever trade with the Khajiit caravans?"

Most of the Companions shrug. Torvar is mid-chug, but he waves his free arm to keep anyone else from talking until he finishes drinking. "No, but there's a girl down at the market who does. Always hear her talkin' about it on my way to the Mare."

"What's her name?" Farkas asks.

"How should I know? Pretty little thing, though."

"What does she look like?"

Torvar cups his hands in front of his chest to demonstrate what seems to be the only trait he remembers about the caravan trader.

"Hair color? Age? Height?" he tries. Torvar just shrugs and goes back to drinking.

The next day, Farkas finds himself standing awkwardly around the market stalls, pretending to be fascinated by necklaces and heads of lettuce while he listens for anyone talking about caravans and tries not to be obvious about checking the women for chest sizes. If word about this gets back to Matilda, the only thing he could do to demonstrate his innocence would be punch Torvar's nose through the back of his skull.

After a few minutes of failing to get results with this method, Farkas gives up and just starts asking. He gets lucky. Carlotta Valentia has an answer at the first stall he tries. "That'll be Ysolda. In the blue dress over there."

Blue dress: that's the kind of distinguishing feature you can look for without getting kicked in the berries. Even better, he knows Ysolda, at least well enough to nod to in the street—they both grew up in the city and they're around the same age. Happily, Farkas weaves his way through the stalls and taps her on the shoulder. She jumps.

"Sorry," he says. "You all right?"

"That depends. Do I owe someone money that you're about to try to get back from me?" she asks. Looks serious about it, too.

"No. I have a question for you."

Ysolda relaxes. "Then I'm all right. I thought—well, never mind. What can I answer for you?"

"I want to start trading with the Khajiit caravans. People say you deal with them."

"Yes, I do. But anyone can buy things from the caravans; you don't need me to put in a word for you unless you also intend to follow the merchant's trade."

Farkas nods, hoping he isn't going to have to give her a cut of his sales too. She doesn't even have a shop. "We'll be traveling—"

Ysolda smiles. "Don't worry, I'm willing to help out a fellow aspirant. What I really want is to buy the Mare, and you're no threat to that. One of the caravans will be here in a few days; I'll talk to one of my contacts and tell them you'll be coming. You'll still need to be sharp to get a good deal from them, but it might save you a few coins." He starts to thank her, but she's not done talking. "And a word of advice. Don't be afraid to haggle a little. I heard what happened at Warmaiden's."

That was more than he expected. "I appreciate it," he says sincerely.

"Oh, anything for the Dragonborn. Or her husband. You know—" Her smile broadens. "—this is the second most in love I've ever seen her."

* * *

"What's the most in love you've ever been?" he asks Matilda late that night.

"Ten minutes ago, when you did that thing with your tongue. By the gods, Farkas, where did you learn that?"

"Made it up," he says. Then, "And that's not an answer."

"You're a genius, and I will pummel anyone who ever implies otherwise." She yawns and wraps a strand of his hair idly around one fingertip. "The answer is right now. But why the question?"

He doesn't know. He's just been wondering. Maybe because he sleeps beside her every night and fights beside her almost every day, and there's still a lot he doesn't understand about her. Or maybe because he's never thought much about love before. About putting words to what he feels. They didn't have a long courtship. He doesn't know.

"Ysolda said something in the market today. It isn't important."

"Ysolda—" Matilda stops for a second or two, then snorts. "Oh. I should tell you the truth. I was engaged once before, a few months ago."

"You were?"

"To a hagraven. It didn't last." And she tells him the story of how she crossed paths with the Daedric prince of debauchery. He starts thumping his fist on the pillow somewhere around the third sentence and doesn't stop until she finishes and protests, "I'll swear by any god you name, Farkas, every word of it is true."

"That's…that's…wow," is all he can say.

"Mmm, the tragic tale of my lost love. The only one, really. This is the first time since I was a pup that I've stayed in one place long enough to get attached." She rolls up on her elbows to look at him. "You?"

"There was one girl. Two, three years back. New blood."

"What happened to her?"

"Killed during her trial. Draugr. She was the first whelp Aela took out after she joined the Circle. Maybe why she takes a while to warm up to new ones now."

He hasn't thought of Sevyni in a long time. For a while he'd wondered how she'd be if she'd lived, what might've happened. But Jorrvaskr filled up with new whelps and new work, the way it always does, and in time he didn't wonder so much anymore. Matilda's hand brushes his.

"I'm fine," he says. "It was long ago." In one of the smartest moves he's ever made, he thinks to add, "Don't ask. Aela wouldn't be happy I told you."

"Is that why you do the trials now?"

"No, we all do. Aela had better luck with Njada. Torvar was one of mine. Vilkas had Ria, and Skjor had Athis. Vilkas says Kodlak probably chose me for your trial so you'd want to stay."

"If that's so, it worked even better than he intended." Her teeth flash in the dark. A smile. "So, then, what's the most in love you've ever been?"

He touches her cheek with one fingertip. Weather-reddened, chapped from wind and cold, thin scar you wouldn't notice unless you were feeling for it. "Right now," he says. And then he ventures further. "…dear."

She curves in closer to him, and he knows he said the right thing.

* * *

He's at the workbench at Warmaiden's a few days later sharpening a sword when Ysolda finds him. "One of the caravans just set up outside the city," she says. "Ask for Ri'saad; he's the leader of all the caravans that come through Whiterun. He'll be expecting you."

Farkas doesn't know anything about haggling with Khajiit, and as soon as the tents come into view, he starts to feel like a milk drinker and wish he'd brought Matilda. She could probably talk _them_ into paying _her _to take their goods. But he said he's do this himself, so he squares his shoulders and approaches the caravan, determined to get a good price.

The caravan smells like spices and something sweet he can't place. As he comes around the side of the largest tent, he sees there's a large round carpet set on the ground at the front of it, and a Khajiit sitting on it, positioned so he's just at the edge of the sunlight. Three other Khajiit are milling around the camp; Farkas takes two of them for assistants and the heavily-armed one for a guard.

"Ri'saad?" Farkas asks the seated one. He looks like the leader, both because of his position and because he has the most fur. You can pick out a lot of Nord leaders by their beards, Farkas reasons.

"Ah. You are the one Ysolda spoke of. The Dra—" Wisely, the merchant cuts himself off. "Welcome. I will be pleased to serve you however I can. Please, sit."

He sets himself down awkwardly at the other end of the carpet. The Khajiit's assistants step forward and spread samples of their wares on the carpet between them. Farkas looks them over. The normal armor and weapons he doesn't need—his own pieces are better—but he can tell that a few of their items are enchanted, and he can't do that himself. Even people who don't trust magic (Farkas himself being one of them) will wear armor enchanted to resist it. He picks up a shield, inspecting the workmanship. Not bad. "What's the enchantment on this one?" he asks.

"It resists fire," Ri'saad answers. "As does this necklace."

Farkas likes any armor that's easy to fit: shields and helms work for a much bigger range of sizes than a cuirass. Jewelry is the best, though; even someone who doesn't know which end of a sword to hold can get use out of a necklace that lets them carry more. He takes the necklace the merchant is holding out and inspects it. The chains on all of these are too thin, but thicker links are easy to make. Farkas lays the necklace down carefully, adding items to his mental shopping list.

They're carrying a lot of clothing, but Farkas leaves it alone, not sure how to determine a fair price. He selects wool and linen and leather to make armor padding, ores for improving metal goods, a few of the rarer potions Arcadia doesn't carry, and half a handful of little gems. One of Ri'saad's assistants brings forward a chest of household goods, and he looks through those as well: yes to the better-made tablewear that can be polished or carved and a lute he can easily restring, no to the ordinary pots and tools. A less polite no to the poisons and skooma. Ri'saad gestures sharply at the reddish one, who immediately shuts the casket it's in and takes it away. Farkas has a feeling they won't show him that one next time.

When he's seen everything, he taps the items he wants and the stone-colored assistant gathers them together on the blanket, moving the rest of it out of the way. "How much?" Farkas asks.

Ri'saad names a price. After his negotiation with Adrianne Avenicci, Farkas thinks he has the pattern of it: the first offer will be too high, he should respond with one that's too low, and they'll meet in the middle. So he answers with a lower number.

"Why?" Ri'saad asks simply.

Farkas didn't have any particular basis for it. He just thought it sounded reasonably lower than their starting point. "It's a fair offer."

Ri'saad shakes his head, as if to say, _you poor ice brain_. "I'm afraid it is not, my worthy friend. And if you cannot give me a better reason, then I must insist on my original price."

Farkas tries to feel for his coin purse without being noticed. He can cover it. He pours the septims out into the merchant's paws, takes the bundle the assistants wrap for him, and starts toward the city. Can't win 'em all.

* * *

Reasoning that he can't afford any negotiations for a while, he decides to work on what he already has. One of the pieces he has sitting around is an iron helm, slightly dented on one side. He takes it to Warmaiden's and works all day on it, hammering the dent out and smelting new iron to reinforce the sides. He replaces the chipped left horn and two missing rivets near the crown. He finds a padded helmet cap that fits. When he's done all that, he polishes the whole thing as best he can. A lot of fighters will go right out and dull their armor anyway—make themselves harder to spot or look more experienced than they actually are, either way—but everyone likes the shine of new armor. It's not perfectly even, not the way it would be if Eorlund or Adrianne had done it. But it's comfortable enough to wear all day and it'll keep an arrow from penetrating your skull, and that's what matters.

He looks up only when the sky is gold and orange and Matilda passes him coming back from the hunt. Matilda's no archer, so her quarry's usually big game, something she can take down at close range when it attacks. He goes to help her get it in and finds he was right: bear meat, already field-dressed. They'll have drying and salting ahead of them, and cleaning the hide. It'll make a rug or a wall hanging, if she didn't slash the beast up too much. Another thing to add to his stock.

He's tired as he sets the helmet down on the shelf by the fire and starts carving three portions of meat for dinner, his mind and his muscles both. Feels good, though. Like a day spent training or a successful job or a fruitful hunt, but with this he ends up with something solid he can hold in his hands. He likes the logic of turning a piece over in his hands and thinking about what it needs. What would make it something he'd want to use, or hand to Matilda or his shield-siblings or his own children, someday, and say, "I made this. Now it's yours." He sees how Eorlund could make the forge his life.

It's been an expensive week. But watching the dull glow of the firelight on the iron helm, he decides with satisfaction that it's been a good one, too.


	3. Chapter 3

Farkas starts collecting his work in the spare room at Breezehome. Materials on one side, finished pieces on the other. It's not long before all the inventory starts spilling out into the main room, piling up under the stairs. He begins to wonder how he's going to carry all this on the road. He can carry about 300 pounds without slowing himself down too much in a fight—but he figured that out in training, with the weights distributed well. If 100 of those pounds are shields he has to try to attach to his body somehow, that'll be harder. Maybe he should stick to selling out of the house, or a cart if they'll be staying in another city for a while, or carry a limited stock on the road.

"So much for putting in an alchemy lab," Lydia comments while he's piecing all this together.

Matilda, who has a cupboard crammed with pressed flowers and troll fat but no intentions of learning alchemy as far as Farkas can tell, shrugs. "We still have a kitchen."

"Please don't get nightshade near where we prepare the food, Thane."

"Oh, Lydia. Where's your sense of adventure?"

"There's adventure, and then there's convulsions and delirium followed by death."

The two of them go on bantering, but Farkas stays quiet and considers. Alchemy. Should he learn that? He'll use a potion when he has to, but he doesn't particularly trust the people who make them. Usually mages.

On the other hand, they taste terrible. How hard could it be to add a few grapes?

* * *

The answer is very, Farkas learns after his first few attempts leave him with a fever and an hour of shooting chest pains. It is very hard to make potions taste good.

It turns out that you can't just mash up grapes and toss them into everything. It's not that no one has thought of doing this before; it's that almost anything you add has its own effects. He gags on a succession of powdery, chunky potions before he catches on that some ingredients have to be ground or melted or heated to combine the right way. That's why they use the labs. It quickly becomes obvious that he can't do it without a lab, so he throws up his hands, pushes everything into one corner of the spare room, and goes to Dragonsreach to buy one.

He's lived in its shadow all his life, but he's never been inside the Jarl's palace. Never had reason to be. The walk up isn't quite seven thousand steps—more like seven thousand guards. Seems like he passes one every ten paces, all the way into the keep. Have there always been that many?

Inside, the keep is reassuringly like Jorrvaskr: long tables and a great central fire and wooden pillars, with other wings jutting off the center. What's different is the high ceiling and the tapestries and rugs woven in Whiterun's white and gold. His boots sink in when he crosses, as though he's moving over snow.

The Jarl's throne is at the extreme opposite side of the massive room. Balgruuf is talking with two silver-and-red-clad women—Imperial soldiers. He's slumped over on one arm of the chair, but he's watching the soldiers intently as they talk. Looks like a serious discussion. He files the knowledge away for later, to tell Matilda when she gets back from her job tonight.

One of the guards is at his side now. "What do you need, honored Companion?"

Farkas turns back from the throne and answers, "I'm here to talk to the Jarl's steward."

"Why?"

"I want to buy an alchemy lab."

"Wait here. I'll ask if he can meet with you."

The guard walks off. Farkas continues to stand around and watch. It's like Jorrvaskr, people milling around everywhere. Two old women sweeping who look like they could be Tilma's sisters. The Jarl's children whining about how they like their meat. Guards patrolling. The court wizard and Balgruuf's brother taking their places at the table for a few minutes even though it's not mealtime and then wandering off in some other direction. Maybe there's just nothing else for them all to do. Once in a while you used to see the Jarl down at the Mare or even in Jorrvaskr—but not since the war started. Unlike Farkas, the Jarl's people can't start a shop.

It doesn't take too long before an older man wearing a quilted jacket and more hair on his eyebrows than anywhere else on his face appears and says, "Welcome to Dragonsreach, Companion. I am Proventus Avenicci, Jarl Balgruuf's steward. How may I assist you?"

Farkas studies his features to see if he looks anything like his daughter. Other than maybe their complexions, the answer is not really. "I want to buy an alchemy lab," he repeats.

"For your wife?"

"No. For me."

"Pfah. The arcane arts are not a toy for any simpleton who gets bored of hacking and slashing," a new voice says behind him. Farkas turns to see the court wizard in his dark hooded robes.

The steward folds his arms and turns a cold stare on the mage. Ah, Farkas thinks, there's the resemblance to Adrianne. "Please ignore Farengar's rudeness. He's convinced that anyone who can't conjure up their own sweetrolls is beneath him. But I must ask—do you have any experience with alchemy?"

"Aye," he answers, slightly offended.

"_Successful _experience?"

"Well, no," he admits.

"Ah." Proventus bows his head apologetically. "In that case, I'm afraid…."

He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to. Vilkas would probably challenge them both to a fight to the death to defend his honor. Matilda would probably make some clever argument that would convince them. Farkas is drawing a blank on the second and doesn't care enough about these people for the first, so he shrugs and turns to go. No point in arguing. He can probably get Arcadia to let him use hers, just carry all his ingredients and bottles over. But then an idea hits him. "You probably don't need the coin anyway."

Jarls always need coin. Behind him, he feels Proventus freeze. He looks back to see the steward with his head still bowed—or bowed again—and his brow furrowed. Proventus is looking at the gold and white rug, but he seems to be seeing something else.

"You'll have your lab," he says. "If you can pay now. Five hundred septims."

The wizard snorts and wanders off again. For a second Farkas wonders if he can negotiate this price too, but the slump of the man's shoulders urges him just to accept and be done with it. Given how his recent attempts have gone, he'd be lucky if he didn't end up agreeing to more than five hundred anyway. "Aye," he agrees simply, sifting out the coins and handing them over.

Proventus counts them again and pockets them. "I'll send a carpenter and Arcadia to Breezehome to set it up for you. They can have it ready by nightfall."

"Thanks," Farkas says.

"If there's any more I can help you with, just let me know." The steward's voice sounds distracted. He's still jangling the coins in his pocket when Farkas turns again and sees himself out.

* * *

"You've seen the extra guards on the streets? And in Dragonsreach?" Matilda asks over dinner by way of explanation. He nods. "People are saying the Jarl barely has enough money to pay them all. Whiterun needs every septim it can get."

"It's true. I've heard stories from my friends in the guard. They think it might only be a few weeks before they start getting promissory notes mixed in with their pay," Lydia says.

Farkas drops a bone for Meeko, who chomps it greedily. "Looks like the Imperials still want to help out. There were two more of them in there today. Balgruuf actually seemed to be listening to them this time." Like everyone else in the city, he's watched the envoys troop in and out of Dragonsreach for months. They haven't made any obvious progress in getting Balgruuf to declare for the Empire yet, but if Whiterun doesn't have the coin to stand on its own anymore, it'll have to choose a side. You don't have to be an expert in politics to understand that much.

Lydia and Matilda glance at each other. "Jarl Ulfric would want to know that," Lydia says.

Matilda spears another three grilled leeks and piles them onto her plate. "Ulfric has his sources. He doesn't need to wait for intelligence like this from us, trust me."

"This city can't stay out of the war forever, Thane. No matter how much you might wish it."

"By Talos, Lydia," Matilda says, which she only does when she's serious. It's a dangerous thing to say. "I'm newly married—"

"—it's been weeks—"

"—and I have dragons to slay, and Farkas might like to sell something before the economy shuts down. Can you blame me for not wanting to rush things?"

"No." Lydia is pushing her own vegetables around now without picking them up. If she doesn't want them, he wishes she'd pass them over instead of mashing them like that. "But good people are dying in skirmishes day by day while the Thalmor grow stronger. Maybe it's time someone like you urged the Stormcloaks to bring things to a head so we can finally push the Imperials out and get on with the real fight."

"It's all the real fight. The Legionnaires outnumber the Stormcloaks two to one in some holds," Matilda argues.

Lydia puts the fork down and looks at her. "But the Legion doesn't have the Dragonborn."

Matilda falls silent, thinking. He sets a hand on her arm in an effort to be reassuring. But it makes her look up at him, as if she's expecting him to offer some wisdom. "I don't have a dog in this fight," he reminds her gently. "Other than you." That came out wrong. He tries again. "What I mean is, I don't have the right political solution. But even if I did, this has to be your decision. You're the one whose name is gonna be in the history books, so you're the one who needs to decide what they say underneath it."

"I'll send a courier," she says after a long pause. "Underscore the gravity of the situation. But if Ulfric responds with an axe instead of a diplomat, it will be on our heads."

"And the gods'," Lydia answers.

"Lucky for them they don't have to live in Whiterun," Matilda mutters darkly.

* * *

When other things—jobs to be done, the floor to be swept, furs to be washed—don't need his attention the rest of that week, he turns his attention to alchemy. Arcadia gives him a few tips, and he works his way slowly through a dog-eared copy she lends him of _Herbalist's Guide to Skyrim _(the pages that aren't too stained to read, anyway), but mostly he has to learn by trial and error. Mix things and drink them. He has to start taking notes on what he's tried so far. He doesn't know the proper names of most of the ingredients, so he just writes down what they look like: _tasty brownish egg + spiky purple flower_. After he remembers that hard way that nightshade is also a spiky purple flower, he starts adding drawings too.

By Middas he thinks he knows what he's doing. He has a basic formula for a potion to restore health that he knows works; now he just needs to find something to add that will make it taste better without altering the effects.

He grabs a basket and goes to the market. Picks up two green apples; two red apples; milk; bunches of jazbay grapes, juniper berries, and snowberries; sugar; honey. Practices haggling, though still not too far. If he ever wants to get good at bargaining, he'll have to do it away from Whiterun, somewhere he doesn't know how many mouths everyone has to feed.

"What brings you to the market for so much produce, Companion? Is Tilma sick?" Carlotta Valentia asks.

"No," he answers. "I'm making potions."

For a few days he'd managed to convince Lydia to try them out by threatening to tell Matilda about that time he caught the housecarl sitting in their bedroom eating bread when she thought they were both out ("I like the light in there!" she still insists). But one little incident when he mistook a red flower for purple ("It's hard to tell by firelight!" he still insists) and she refuses to test one of his potions ever again. Some of the Companions are willing, but not any more help: they all have cast-iron stomachs. Torvar drinks half a bottle of one that turns out to be poisonous and never even breaks a sweat.

Loredas morn, he becomes convinced that apples and honey are the secret.

"This is why people hate mages, brother," Vilkas complains when he brings a new batch to the Mare that evening and starts trying to pass them around to his shield-siblings. It's the third time in as many days. Suddenly they all seem to have their hands too full with drinks to take one.

"The healing potions?" Matilda asks, all innocence as she signals to Saadia for their drinks and slides onto a bench by the fire. "I'd always thought it was the predilection for going mad with arcane knowledge and the lust for power and slaughtering everyone around them."

Vilkas folds his arms and makes the same face he's made ever since he was a pup every time some minor thing he doesn't like happens. "I'll drink when the Harbinger does."

Farkas has been trying to avoid using his wife as a test subject—partially because she needs to be at her full strength in case of a dragon attack and she can't risk getting poisoned; mostly because she knows where he sleeps. But she plucks one of the bottles out of his hand before he can stop her and holds it up to the light. Swirls it around. Uncorks it and sniffs. "It smells fine."

"You're going to drink it? Voluntarily?" Aela asks.

"If this is the toughest beast I conquer this week, I might as well hang up my axe."

"All right, ice brain, give me one of those. Can't back down after someone says that." Aela holds out a hand and he passes her a bottle. A few seconds later, Njada does the same, then Ria and Athis. Even Sinmir comes over and takes one, and Ysolda and the bard gather around to watch. Farkas puts the last bottle into Vilkas's fist before his brother can say no. Vilkas grumbles but uncorks it anyway.

"Companion or no, you poison all these people in my tavern and you're cleaning it up," Hulda calls, leaning against the bar.

"I do my killing with a blade," Farkas tries to reassure her. "Or my fists."

"A chair leg, that one time," Matilda comments.

He shrugs. "Don't make a habit of that, though."

Saadia brings their mead. Farkas drinks; Matilda sets hers on the bench next to her (dangerous move). "On three," Aela says. "Last one to finish buys the next round. Bard, count us off."

The bard bows. "Anything for you, beautiful." Aela chucks an empty mug in his direction. He ducks and comes up with his smile still in place. "One—two—"

It's only when the bottle's halfway to her lips that Matilda thinks to stop and ask, "What are we about to drink?"

"Health potion," Farkas answers, a little put out that she couldn't tell. He put them in red bottles and everything.

"No, I mean _what are we about to drink?_"

"Better if you don't know." The ash hopper jelly doesn't taste bad boiled down, but he thinks it probably gets a little worse if you think about what you're drinking.

Matilda shrugs. "I'll start again," the bard says loudly. "One—two—three." The competitors lift their potions in a toast, and toss them back. Aela finishes first and slams her bottle down in triumph so hard he's worried the glass will shatter. Athis is next, then Njada, Matilda, Vilkas, Ria and Sinmir, all within a few seconds of each other. Sinmir glumly waves Saadia over and hands her the coin.

There's a fateful moment while Farkas watches his wife's face carefully to see if she's about to collapse and need to be caught. "It's good," she pronounces finally.

He's suspicious she's just saying it to be nice, but then the others start nodding in agreement. That convinces him. Njada never said anything in her life just to be nice. "Really?"

"I wouldn't switch it out for mead, but it's a lot better than a normal potion. I think you can sell as many of those as you can bottle, love."

"You think?" He considers. "Maybe I should learn to blow glass."

She chuckles and reaches for her drink. "Maybe one thing at a time."

* * *

They head for home a couple hours later, flush from his success and several rounds of drinks. Keeps the chill off. The night's still young in the Bannered Mare, but Matilda has to get up in the morning to ride to Solitude in time for some party he only dimly remembers her mentioning a while back. She's supposed to sneak in to steal information about what the elves are doing, which he knows has something to do with the dragons but can't remember exactly what. Whether they're behind the dragons returning, he thinks.

If he needed a reminder of how weak human senses are compared to the beast's, he gets it in how long it takes him to notice the man standing in the shadows outside Belethor's shop. They're almost within striking distance by the time he sees the figure under the eaves right by the door, where he's hardest to spot from the street. Farkas nudges Matilda as subtly as he can manage and watches her gaze turn toward the man, who's openly looking at them now. Dressed like a laborer, not armored like a bandit—but then, maybe that's just what a bandit would want them to think. Farkas brings his hand up so he can draw his sword quickly if he needs to. But when they get close, the man just drops something and walks off toward the Wind District.

"Hey," Farkas calls after him, but Matilda lays a hand on his arm and quickly scoops the object up as they pass. Then she walks on as if nothing happened, nodding at a passing guard. But her pace quickens as they get close to Breezehome, and she's three strides ahead of him in getting the door open and ducking inside.

"Lock the door," she orders as soon as he follows her in. She waits until he does it, holding Meeko off with his free hand, before she unclenches her fist to look at what she's picked up. It's a folded piece of paper. "Very subtle," he can barely hear her mutter as she unfolds it. Her eyes skim quickly over the lines, and her brow furrows further with every one. As soon as she finishes, she tears the paper in quarters and throws it on the fire. They watch as it blackens and disintegrates like the corpse of the dragon they killed.

"What was it?" he asks when it's gone.

"Ulfric." She looks absolutely sober now. "He wants me to come to Windhelm. Right now."

"Are you going to go?"

"I can't. If I lose this chance to find out what the Thalmor know about the dragons, I might not get another one. Whatever he needs, it will have to wait."

The firelight in this room casts strange shadows on people's faces. Usually they laugh about it. Tonight, though, the way the light plays over her features makes her look—worn down. Like an iron shield scuffed and scarred from battle.

"You all right?" he asks.

"Fine," she says. She kicks the firelogs to rearrange them while she says it. "Go ahead and get ready for bed. I'll be up soon; just need a minute to clear my head."

He gives Meeko a quick scratch behind the ears and then starts up the stairs. At the top, he leans back over the railing to watch his wife. She folds her arms and stares into the fire for a long while, looking lost in thought. Then she grabs the half-bottle of ale Lydia left sitting out on the table and downs the whole thing.


	4. Chapter 4

It's still dark out when the idea comes to him, but he can't stop thinking about it after that, so he gets dressed and goes downstairs to stoke the fire until he has enough light to see by. The storage room is dark and cluttered, but he knows more or less where everything is, so it only takes him a minute or two to come up with a fairly smooth wooden shield and a carving knife. He takes them over by the fire and gets to work. Lydia follows him down after the first hour or so and starts cooking breakfast, but he's too absorbed in his work to pay much attention.

By the time Matilda pads downstairs around seven or eight, he's almost done. "What are you working on?" she asks. He holds up the new sign for his shop. "'The Wolf's Pack,'" she reads. "Cute."

He feels compelled to explain why there's a large blank space beneath the letters. "I want it to have a picture of a wolf, but I can't draw one."

"Well," she says, with a glint in her eye. Farkas has seen that look before. She gets it whenever someone tells her there's some horrible threat out there that can't be stopped. "We've seen plenty of wolves. It can't be too hard to draw one." She rummages through the cupboard and comes up with a roll of paper, ink and a quill, and she sits down at the kitchen table to work.

She works fast and intently, same way she fights. Each stroke of the quill is as purposeful as a swing of her axe. He's glad to see her looking better than last night—having something to focus on probably helps. Another couple of minutes, and she stands up and shows it to him. "What do you think?"

He doesn't even try not to laugh. Eventually he gives up and goes to his knees on the floor, wheezing and clutching his aching ribs.

"That bad?" she asks.

"It looks like a pup's idea of a Khajiit," he manages to get out.

Her face falls into a look that, if he weren't seeing it on the Harbinger of the Companions, he might call a pout.

"Poor Thane," Lydia says. "You're just not used to not being the best at everything you turn your hand to."

"Practice! That's all!" Matilda answers firmly. "I am undaunted by a challenge. Speaking of which, I should get going as soon as we finish breakfast so I can meet Delphine's contact ahead of time."

"Sure you don't want me to come with you?" he asks.

"I know how you love fancy parties. Alas, there's only the one invitation."

"This isn't a joke," Lydia says. "If the Thalmor catch you, they'll—"

"Torture and kill me, yes. Delphine will have an outrider posted outside the city who will come straight here if I don't make contact by the morning after the party, so you'll have time to get out before they come for you."

They've had this discussion before. At first he argued that they should stay and fight if the elves showed up at their door, die with their swords in his hands, but Matilda said the Thalmor would come in overwhelming numbers in the night and take them alive before they could struggle. Then the torture. After that they argued about where to go. Not Dragonsreach or Jorrvaskr, where they'd bring the Thalmor down on Whiterun. The plan is for him and Lydia to split up, use their better knowledge of the Skyrim wilderness to hide out until he can meet up with Delphine in Ivarstead and Lydia can get to the Stormcloaks in Windhelm.

They all know it doesn't matter much where they go, though. If the Thalmor kill the Dragonborn, no one in Skyrim's likely to last for long anyway.

That weary expression from last night flickers across Matilda's face, so he tries to venture the kind of joke she'd normally make. "Don't worry," he says. "She won't let herself get killed before she learns to draw." The housecarl scowls, but his wife's smile makes it worth it.

* * *

"It's my turn to go to market, isn't it?" Lydia asks once Matilda's on her way.

He considers. "Think it was hers."

Lydia sighs and picks up the basket. "Interesting how the Thane always seems to slip out just before a chore needs to be done."

"It's probably a coincidence," he replies loyally. The housecarl _hmph_s as she leaves and he turns back to the sign. Just a few more strokes to carve. Better wait to paint it until the wolf gets added, though. Maybe Eorlund can do it—he makes the wolf armor, after all. He'll probably bellyache about it, but if Farkas can get his hands on one of Tilma's pies before he heads up to the Skyforge, he can probably convince the old man to help.

It can't be five minutes before Lydia's back. "Do you want any wheat?" she asks, sticking only her head and one arm back through the doorway.

"Why?" he asks. They usually buy flour, and the three of them have been living here long enough that they all know what to get.

"The market's full of it today. The Jarl's selling off a big load of grain from the city's stores—cheaply," she answers with a grin so broad it's hard for him to believe this is the same face that was scowling a few minutes ago. "Nazeem is furious."

Then he's an idiot, it occurs to Farkas. People still need to mill the grain if they want flour, and Nazeem's farm's the closest place to do it. If he just charged to use his equipment like Adrianne Avenicci, he wouldn't lose much over the price of flour. He could even ask a little to mill it for them and deliver it to their houses. Or hire someone, Farkas guesses; hard to picture Nazeem getting his hands dirty with his own deliveries.

That's Nazeem's problem, though. "Get a few sheaves," he decides. It'll be a few months yet before the winter wheat's harvested. Be nice to have some extra on hand to hold them over.

"Get them yourself," Lydia raps back. "I just came to tell you. It's the Thane's burdens I swore to carry."

And she's complained about it every day since. "Why'd you agree to that in the first place?" he asks.

"Because I wanted to serve a kind and honorable liege on a great quest and run petty errands for her husband, of course."

Farkas puts down his knife and starts to get up, but she waves him down. "I'm joking, I'm joking. I'll go get it. I'm halfway out the door as it is."

He wonders if this is just her usual slightly sour humor or if she's feeling resentful that she couldn't go to Solitude with Matilda. He's not happy about still being here himself. "Thanks," he says dutifully, and then, "Money must be even tighter than we thought if the Jarl's sellin' the city's stores at a time like this, huh?"

"Let's hope he's just confident that our faith in the gods will reward us with a bountiful harvest," Lydia answers, and shuts the door behind her.

* * *

Matilda's been away four days when Farkas gets in from a job around sunset to find a strange woman slumped in a chair by the fire. He knows she's a stranger because she's wearing a fancy-looking dress, and the only dress his wife owns is that tavern outfit she occasionally pulls out late at night when they're both very drunk. His wife wore armor to her own wedding. It's only when the woman says "Welcome home" in Matilda's lilting voice that he actually believes it. She has the accent of the old Nordic families. Eorlund and Vignar and the Jarl all have it. Vilkas picked it up. Farkas didn't.

He might not've been married long, but he's been married long enough to know that demanding, "Why are you wearing a dress?" is not the way to approach this new and unfamiliar situation. "It's good to see you back safe," he says instead. "How'd the mission go?"

She's been leaning on one elbow like a Jarl. She gets up and stretches as he comes in, gives him a quick hug. "I found the documents I was looking for. But it turns out the Thalmor don't know why the dragons are being resurrected either."

"Does that mean it was a dead end?"

"Not quite. They're looking for an old man named Esbern who's part of the same group as Delphine. They think he might have an answer. We need to find him before they do."

"So where are we headed?" he asks, hopefully taking "we" to include him.

"Riften. Lovely this time of year, I hear."

He thumps his fist on his thigh. Riften's a cesspit and she knows it. Mornings in the fall are the only time he's ever found the place worth looking twice at, and even then you have to keep one hand on your coinpurse and the other on your sword at all times. But he doesn't need a view as long as he can help take the fight to the dragons.

"I think we can afford to wait until morning to set off," she adds, which answers his next question. He could walk right back out the door now, but he can't see her wanting to travel in that dress. Unless she _wants_ to attract bandits for some reason. "The Thalmor were still mopping up the chaos at the embassy when I left Solitude—"

"Chaos?"

"Bodies." Oh. He shouldn't be surprised. She might be able to turn on the charm when she wants, but she can't pass as an elf and no one ever called her good at sneaking around. Of course she'd have to gut half the Embassy on her way out. "They'll beat us to Riften, but I have more friends there than they do. With the right informants, we can get to Esbern first even with a bit of a delay."

Something's wrong, he realizes. He can't quite smell it, but he can hear it in the way she's talking. Must be tired after tearing halfway across Skyrim and back, not to mention the fighting. He's not sure that's all of it, though. Better keep an eye on her.

"Where are Lydia and Meeko?" he asks.

"Lydia," she says, "volunteered to retrieve the rest of my gear from Riverwood. And she took Meeko with her." She takes a step back toward him so that she's so close they're almost breathing the same air. "They won't be back until midnight at the earliest."

Whatever's bothering her, she isn't in the mood for talking about it, and her alternative suits him just fine. He holds out his hands to her and Matilda strips off his gauntlets, faster than he could do it himself. She sets them on the table by the fire and unhooks his sword from his back, propping it against the shelf. In turn, he undoes the clasp of the fur mantle and lays it over the back of the closest chair. Snowy sabre cat fur. Gold clasp. "This from the party?" he asks.

"No, I left those clothes behind when I got my armor back. These are from afterwards, when I was kidnapped by a vampire lord who wanted to make me his love slave."

"Another one?" This time his fist stays still. After that one about Sam Guevenne, he'll believe almost any tale of hers.

"They never learn," she answers dryly. She starts undoing the belt of his cuirass as she talks. Fast. As if she's being chased. "Luckily, I was able to resist his mind-control magicka and only pretend to be in his thrall. I put on this dress as he commanded, but when he tried to bite me, I managed to break off the top of the bedpost and light the end on fire, then used it to drive him back. After a vicious fight, I managed to incapacitate him long enough to reclaim Wuuthrad from the wardrobe he'd hidden it in, then cut his head off and escape."

"Oh," Farkas says. "Just another Tirdas, then."

She snorts. "Actually, the real story is embarrassing. On my way to the tavern where I was meeting my contact, a shop owner saw me walking around the city and was so disgusted by my armor that she gave me this for free if I promised to show it to Elisif."

A clothing shop in Solitude. Something about that rings a bell in Farkas's head. "What shop?"

"The name is escaping me. R—"

"Radiant Raiment?" he asks triumphantly as the pieces click into place like one of those rotating door puzzles.

"How can you possibly know that?"

"Heard the name." Ysolda's mentioned it before.

Fine clothing. That's the last thing he needs, the piece he's been holding off on because he can't tell a cowl from a chaurus hunter and doesn't know how not to get cheated. But this place in Solitude's supposed to be the best in Skyrim. If he can learn why, he can look for quality himself and not have to rely on some merchant's word. Or find a supplier and have it made. Maybe even learn to make it himself one day.

That shop's not cheap, he knows. He couldn't put a price on the thin piece of fabric his wife is wearing, but he's pretty sure for the same amount of money, you could get something that might actually have a chance at stopping an arrow. Why would anyone spend that much coin on this? Frowning, he pinches a section of the sleeve between his thumb and forefinger.

"Farkas?" she questions him. Her hands pause on one of the catches as the side of his chestplate.

He realizes he's going to have to be subtle about this. "Nothing, love," he says, circling around behind her. He bends to kiss her ear, then her neck, listening to her gasp as he sinks his teeth into the skin between her throat and shoulder, letting his hands wander. She squirms—she wanted to be in control, do things faster—but he pulls her tight against him until she lets him, closes her eyes and tilts her head back. He grins. Who said he's the dumb brother?

He has to admit the dress looks good on her. Maybe that's what you pay for, though Solitude must be the only place in Skyrim where people are idle enough to hand over good septims for clothing that couldn't outlast its first harvest or tavern brawl. It fits her well. The leather belt—nice supple leather—helps it lie snugly around her waist, just like armor, but when he unlaces the belt and sets it aside, he sees that the dress itself is cut looser. The material doesn't seem to have much give in it, so it probably has to be wider than her waist so she can get it on and off. But it _is_ soft, inviting under his fingers. Warmer than he'd expect from such a thin cloth.

"What kind of cloth is this?" he whispers close to her ear. He can feel the heat from his own breath.

"Wha-? Wool."

"Really?" he blurts, surprised. Both of them wear woolen trousers under their armor every day. It's coarse cloth, handspun. Slightly itchy until you get used to it. It doesn't feel like this.

She twists to give him a strange look. "It's better quality than what we normally wear. Silk lining. Why—?" Farkas dips a finger into her neckline, then the rest of his hand, feeling the smooth texture of the inner fabric sliding against her skin, and her eyes flutter shut again. Doesn't silk come from spiders? He hopes he can buy it directly on the market and not have to go collect some himself.

She must've had enough of being teased, because she turns and grabs him by the chin. Kisses him hard. It's a struggle to stay focused as she strips his cuirass off and reaches for his shirt.

What else? His head is fogging. The stitches are small and even, even better than Tilma's. Farkas knows how difficult that is. As a pup, he accidentally sewed half a dozen trouser legs together with his awkward, oversized stitches until Tilma stopped trying to make him learn. He jerks sharply at either side of the neckline, pulling the dress from her shoulders and down. The stitches don't even budge. Also not like his work.

"Impressive," he mutters. He wonders if Ri'saad will let him try that on the caravan's pieces, or if he'll have to come up with a new test.

"Urgh," she groans, "just—" and then, mercifully, she kisses him again before he can say anything else stupid. A few seconds later, the dress slides the rest of the way to the floor, and Farkas decides he'll have plenty of time to study it later.

* * *

Afterwards, they cut down two of the smoked salmon hanging over the fire and he fillets them on the table while Matilda gets out apples, cheese and ale. When she has the platter ready, she goes over and sits on one of the furs next to the fire. He watches her out of the corner of his eye, notices her pulling her knees close to her chest. She remembers herself quickly and stretches them out again, but in those few seconds, she looks more like a lost pup than a dragonslayer.

He puts the knife down. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, it's—" She looks at him and stops. Looks back at the fire. After a long silence, she says flatly, "Got my contact killed."

So that's it. "Want to talk about it?" he asks. He wouldn't if it were him, but words come more easily to her. Farkas just hopes she wants to be the one doing most of the talking. He doesn't have any wisdom to offer about how to deal with that other than the only way he knows, which is to put your head down and get through it.

"What is there to say?" Her voice is rough. "'He knew the risks'? 'He would have been proud to die to hurt the Thalmor'? I was three steps away when they stabbed him, Farkas, and he wasn't thinking about any of that. The only thing written on his face was how much he wanted to live." She shakes her head. "No, I'd rather talk about anything else. Tell me how the preparations for the shop are going."

He can do that much, at least. "Almost ready. There's more I'd like to get, but I have enough stock now that I could open soon. Next week, even." He goes back to finish up the fillets and tosses them on the cooking rack just over the flames, then takes a jug of water and goes upstairs to rinse his hands in the washbasin.

"When we get back from Riften?"

"Yeah."

"How are you going to set it up?"

"I could build a market stall here. I'll carry less traveling. Just a pack with some smaller things."

"We should throw a grand opening party," she says. "Get a courier to announce it to the whole city, bake some sweets…"

She's trying hard, he can tell. He has to play along. "Will you wear that dress again?" he asks, flicking his hands dry as he comes down the stairs.

"Only if my favorite shop doesn't have an even better one to sell me." She moves over to make room for him on the fur. He squeezes in beside her and takes a swig from the bottle of ale.

"Not right away. But soon."

"Perhaps I'll just follow you around until you have it in stock, so no one else can snatch it up before I get to it."

She leans forward to turn the fillets over, and he's relieved to notice the ghost of a smile on her lips as she does. He kisses the back of her shoulder and says, "Glad you're back."

"Me too," she answers. The strange shadows cast by the flames fan out over her face as she leans back again.


	5. Chapter 5

He's sleeping hard when a violent pounding noise shakes him out of it. It takes him a minute to make sense of the sound: the front door. Someone's knocking at the front door. And so damn loudly that the wood must be threatening to crack, because he can hear it like it's right next to him despite the covered walls. Then Meeko starts barking. They must be back from Riverwood already.

"Ysmir's beard, it's the dead of night," Matilda murmurs sleepily. "What can someone possibly need at this hour?"

"You, probably," Farkas says. "I'll go set them straight." He swings his legs out of the bed and feels around with his feet for the trousers he knows are crumpled on the floor somewhere nearby. After thirty seconds of groggy hunting he finds them and pulls them on, not bothering with smallclothes, but by the time he can make it to the stairs, Lydia is already coming back up them. "Well?" he asks.

"A Stormcloak courier," she answers. "With a horse. She says she's just made it here from Windhelm and she's waiting to take the Thane back there with her."

Farkas grunts. "Tell her to wait until sunrise, then."

"It's fine, Farkas." Matilda's in the bedroom doorway with one of the bed furs wrapped around herself. "I won't be able to get back to sleep now anyway. Might as well go see what Ulfric needs so urgently."

Likely as not, just for the Dragonborn to stand next to him and look impressive while he addresses his men, thinks Farkas. While she's getting her armor on, he makes a groggy offer to come with her, but she shakes her head. "We'll travel faster with two. And the faster I get there, the sooner I can get back."

Farkas tries to go back to bed after she leaves, but he can't sleep either. He picks up the dress she was wearing last night and turns it over in his hands. He notices that the trim catches all of what little light there is, and wonders how you get that effect and what it costs. And he notices that it smells like her.

* * *

Next day he's outside talking with Ysolda about wool prices when he sees Matilda returning through the main gate of the city. She's been gone less than a day; must've ridden like she was being hunted and turned around almost as soon as she got there. He meets her at the door and they go inside together. "What did Ulfric want?" he asks.

Meeko bounds up and leaps on her, tail wagging so hard it might shake loose. Lydia is a step behind him. She's not wagging her tail, though he figures she might be if she could. "Down, Meeko," Matilda orders distractedly. "Good boy." She doesn't answer Farkas's question, at least not in words. Instead, she removes a one-handed axe from her back and shows it to him. The steel blade is intricately carved, and the handle is wrapped in blue cloth.

Farkas whistles. "Is that what I think it is?"

"If you think it's the war coming to Whiterun, then yes." Matilda sets the axe on the table, takes her helmet off and rakes her fingers through her hair. "By Talos, he has the worst timing. When am I going to get to Riften now?"

"You don't think the Jarl will keep it?" Lydia asks.

"You've spent more time in Dragonsreach than I have. You tell me."

Lydia folds her arms against her chest. "There's no love lost between him and the Thalmor. But he might also think Whiterun will be safer in the hands of the Imperials. His brother Hrongar is strongly on their side and is always pushing him to take up arms against the Stormcloaks."

"Lucky for Ulfric I'm a fast talker, then." There's that flicker of exhaustion across Matilda's face again before she squares her shoulders and picks up the axe again, moving fast. He's seen her do this before. Instead of relaxing her guard when she's ground down, she gets brisk.

Lydia sees it too. "Thane, sit down and rest before you collapse."

"I'll rest in Sovngarde," Matilda announces, and then she's gone just as fast as she appeared.

* * *

He and Lydia wait at the table. They don't talk much. When the time for the evening meal comes, they prepare it in silence, let it grow cold, and then give up and eat it.

The sound of her key in the lock startles them both. Meeko barks; Farkas puts a hand on his head to quiet him down. Matilda comes into the room and lays the axe on the table.

"The Jarl has asked me to leave the city by dawn," she says quietly.

Before she even finishes the sentence, Farkas says, "I'm coming with you."

"No. Remember your history?"

Not as much of it as Vilkas, but enough to know what she's talking about. Lydia doesn't. "What history?" she asks.

"Ever since the Harbinger Mryfwiil the Withdrawn in the First Era, the Companions don't take sides in any wars or political conflicts," Matilda explains. "It's bad enough that I'm going to do it; they'd be justified in asking me to leave the Companions. But two of us would be even worse."

"But why?"

"Keeps us from spilling each other's blood," Farkas says.

"If there was ever a time to make an exception, this would be it."

"Listen to some of the Stormcloaks for five minutes and tell me how I could ask Athis or Ria to raise a blade with me for their cause. And the rest of them don't care about some Jarl's war." Matilda half-collapses onto the bench next to him and rests her head in one hand. "I can't force any of them not to fight on either side, if they want to. But I hope that knowing what a dark time that would take us back to will stay the hands of anyone who might be tempted."

It'll stay Farkas's. He'd listen to the Harbinger's counsel, even if it weren't the same as his wife's. But he doesn't like it.

"Then take her," he says, indicating Lydia. Lydia nods. Give her half a minute and she'll probably be kneeling at Matilda's feet to swear her fealty again. Long as she doesn't have to carry any burdens.

"No," Matilda says—directly to Lydia, not him. "You were in Balgruuf's service before mine, and in Whiterun's guard before that. If you're eager to kill your old comrades-in-arms, you can join the army when it camps here, but I won't have it said that you did it in my name."

Lydia comes right back at her. "And I won't have the person I'm sworn to protect running off on her own yet again as though she were just some—_mercenary _with no obligations—"

For once, Farkas and the housecarl are allies. "She's right," he cuts in. Normally he wouldn't have something to say so fast, but this is important. "You need to—"

"By _Talos_, the two of you! Every time I leave the house for so much as to take a piss, it's the same discussion! Some things I have to do alone!"

Matilda's shouting by the end. That shuts them both up. Meeko's ears flatten. There's a long silence.

"Holding that in for a while, were you?" Lydia asks, quiet and sharp.

Matilda whirls toward her, eyes blazing. Is this the first time he's seen it? This anger, this is what it means to have the soul of a dragon. She could start spitting fire and it wouldn't surprise him for a second.

But something has been building in Farkas for a while too, and now it finally gives way. "It's not easy," he says. "We fight for honor, the same as you. Our lives are bound to yours. But you go off to fight and tell us to stay here and wait. Like pups."

She starts to rear back and strike again, he can see it. And then he watches her stop herself and breathe out, long and slow and careful. She takes off her gauntlets and rubs the heels of her hands into her eye sockets, then shakes her head and looks up again. "Forgive me," she says shortly. "If I didn't have the two of you by my side, I'd already be dead. It isn't fair to be angry because you want to protect me."

He does forgive her. But he doesn't know how to react when she's like this. Vilkas you expect to snap and snarl and vent his frustrations and worries on anyone in his way. Matilda's just the opposite; she'd rather stride around than show she's tired, put on a dress and drag him to bed than admit she failed. He wants to tell her she doesn't have to keep it up in front of them, but he doesn't know how.

Lydia puts a hand over Matilda's. "I'm not _eager_ to kill my friends, Thane. But this is my war as well. I want to fight it at your side."

Matilda exhales again, looking at their hands. Then she nods. "Get your things together, then. Anything you'll need for—who knows how long we'll be in camp." Lydia stands up. Matilda gets up with her, looking more in control of herself now. "Farkas, I need to go tell our shield-siblings. Then we should all make an early night of it. It might be our last good rest for a while."

* * *

Farkas had wondered if Aela or Njada would complain about missing the chance to fight, but they don't. No one does. Even the ones who have a much better grasp on the conflict than he does don't really care about it—or if they do, they keep their mouths shut. And of course, no one says she should leave the Companions. Everyone just tells her to win great honor in the fight.

But they don't understand, any more than he does. While Matilda is talking to some of the others, Vilkas shakes his head and says half under his breath, "Who cares who worships what dead god? Give me something to make me draw my sword."

"You don't have to understand," Farkas shoots back defensively. "Enough that it matters to her." She's the Harbinger. The Dragonborn. Even if she weren't, what right does Vilkas have to question a warrior's reasons for going into battle?

"True. I don't. But if it were _my_ woman going off to raise her blade for some distant jarl, _I'd _want to understand. May you not be left wondering, brother."

Farkas takes a swing at him, but Vilkas dances back and Matilda is looking their way before he can swing again. Probably better the blow didn't connect anyway. No matter what she does, he can't lash out at someone for being right.

* * *

Neither of them can sleep that night. After about an hour of pretending, Farkas whispers, "Matilda?"

Her face turns toward him in the darkness. "Yes?"

"Why did you join Ulfric?"

She doesn't ask why he's just thinking to wonder this now. It takes her a while before she starts talking. "You probably heard that I got caught in an Imperial trap on the Cyrodill border right after High King Torygg's death. They were looking for Stormcloaks trying to escape, but they got me, trying to sneak in the other way."

He stays quiet. After a minute, she keeps going. "It was late summer. Southern summers are like sitting in a fire. I was going to go to Bruma—in the north of Cyrodill, where most of the Nords live—and suddenly, I realized how tired I was of wandering. I'd been trying for years to carve out some great destiny for myself and failing. Suddenly I wanted to go home."

"So why not go through a checkpoint like everyone else?"

Matilda laughs. "Because I feared they'd search me for this." She slips something out from under her pillow and dangles it by the chain, over their heads: an amulet of Talos. The designs on the metal have been worn down with handling. "Well, it wasn't this one. It was the one my father gave me when I left Skyrim to seek fortune and glory. They threw it into the fire when they caught me."

No wonder they thought she was a Stormcloak. "So that's how you came to oppose the Empire? Because they arrested you?"

"No. It wasn't the first time I was arrested and it won't be the last. No hard feelings." Her smile appears suddenly and fades just as fast. "I've never been particularly religious. The amulet was just something I kept because it was important to my parents. But the day Alduin attacked Helgen, I felt—protected. The odds against surviving were so high, and yet Ulfric and the other Stormcloak and I all made it out. Maybe we just ran the right way at the right time. Or maybe not."

She puts the amulet back under her pillow, out of sight. "And when the Graybeards told me I was Dragonborn, Talos became…." Matilda trails off. "I don't care if Skyrim is ruled by people who were born here, but I do think it should be ruled by people who love it enough to be willing to die here, not foreigners who've barely set foot on its soil. And I can't fight to free my homeland from the dragons only to force it back under the thumb of an empire that demands we deny our gods."

Farkas still doesn't understand it. Growing up in Jorrvaskr with warriors from all over Tamriel, he was surrounded by a jumble of faiths, none of them mattering much to him. If you could say they had gods, he guesses they would've been Ysgramor and the great Companions through the ages. He knows the names of the Divines and can recognize their amulets when he sees them. Swears on them occasionally. Got married in the Temple of Mara by a priest, wears the band that symbolizes the goddess's protection. He even gave up the beast blood for the promise of Sovngarde. But he never prayed to any of them the way Aela does Hircine.

"Who cares who worships what dead god?" Vilkas had said. Farkas feels like he's constantly weighing them against each other, his wife and his brother, trying to figure out which one is right.

But then he thinks again about how she believes Talos shielded her against the dragon. If someone guides you, protects you, steadies your hand and gladdens your heart in battle, fighting for them is as natural as breathing. Maybe this god of hers is like a Harbinger, the greatest of her shield-siblings.

Maybe she'd be offended that he thinks of it like that, though. Leaving it aside, he finds himself coming out with the other thing that's been on his mind: "I don't like how Ulfric uses you."

"And how's that?"

"Sending you to deliver the axe. He knows people respect you and will follow you. A warrior should earn his own honor, not hide behind someone else's."

"What is honor, Farkas? You always seem so sure."

"Huh?" He doesn't even know how to answer that. Of course she knows what honor is. She's their Harbinger.

"Is it our actions in battle that bring us honor? Our deeds? Our causes? The feelings in our hearts?"

Farkas is bewildered. "They're all the same thing. Think of Kodlak."

"Maybe he's the exception." She stretches while she thinks, looking up at the ceiling. More time passes before she picks up again. "Ulfric is…complicated. He's power-hungry. Twists stories to his own ends. You're absolutely right that he's using me to legitimize his rebellion. And I think his position on non-Nords—not what he says or does himself, but the rhetoric he allows and the actions he _doesn't_ take to protect the Dunmer in his city and the Argonians outside it—is abhorrent." She pauses, then continues, "But I also think that he truly believes that this, freeing Skyrim, standing on our own feet, is the right thing to do for her people. He's clear-eyed about the struggles that will lie ahead for the people in whose name he's fighting. Even if they cheer him on the day he puts his foot on General Tullius's neck, they'll love him much less on the days he raises taxes even further to pay for his war, and the days—years, maybe—we'll have to fight the Thalmor. But he believes there will be better days after."

She sounds almost hesitant. "Do you?" he asks.

"If I can temper the worst of his tendencies, yes. Drown out the bad advice from his subordinates and hangers-on. Influence matters in a better direction. I wouldn't be taking up arms for his cause if I didn't think I could."

That sounds like a dangerous thing to him, to put someone in power only because you think you can keep them on a leash. She's the one who's good at this, not him, but he still can't help asking, "And if you can't?"

She's silent again for a long minute. Without moving, she says, "The last High King was replaced by the person who shouted him to death."

Farkas stares at her. Her still face upturned in the darkness, smooth and serious. His beautiful, honorable, dangerous wife. They say dragons have an unquenchable thirst for power. "Would you do it?" he asks, half a second before he realizes he isn't sure he really wants to hear the answer.

"I don't know."

Matilda lets it hang before she looks toward him again. "All I know is that you and I don't have many hours left. I don't want to spend them thinking about anyone else." She rolls on top of him, and he's content to roll with her.

* * *

It's still a few hours before dawn when he stirs awake and finds her dressing. She's brought out her old armor—plain, slightly battered steel. He always wondered why she kept that. Now he catches on. It's the only set she has that isn't associated with the Companions.

"Here." He gets up and swings the cuirass over her torso. He knows the workings of her usual wolf armor by heart, but he's spent a lot of time with armor lately and it doesn't take his fingers long to figure out what to do: the clasps and buckles and leather straps. He helps her fix the pauldrons on her shoulders and the gauntlets on her hands, then steps back as she shifts her weight, getting used to fifty pounds of no-longer-familiar metal.

She picks up Wuuthrad and presses it into his hands. "If I die—"

"Don't," he says simply. Once or twice he's heard someone start off like that, a fellow Companion in a weak moment and a bad situation, and he never likes the way it ends. They haven't even thought about who the next Harbinger would be. Vilkas will probably want to talk about it; Farkas will punch him if he brings it up. "You have another weapon?"

"None I'd use. I've seen the Stormcloak camps; their quartermaster will have something for sale."

He stands the axe back against the wall by her side of the bed so it'll be ready when she comes home. Take one from the shop. I don't have an axe, but there's a greatsword downstairs that should be a good length for you."

She nods and they head down together. Lydia's already sitting in one of the chairs, fully geared up, munching on one of her usual half-loaves of bread. He nods in passing and goes into his workroom to find the sword he was thinking of while Matilda wolfs down her own breakfast. When he hands her the blade (with matching scabbard, all beautifully tooled leather and steel), she takes a few swings in what open area she can find in the small house and then nods. "Very nice, Farkas. Good weight. Nice and sharp, but not so sharp it'll get stuck in someone." She sheaths the sword and straps it to her back, taking her time to adjust the height carefully so she can grab the weapon in one fluid motion. "I'll take it. What do I owe you, shopkeeper?"

"Cover it in the blood of your enemies," he says.

"Consider it done." Matilda picks up her pack and Lydia rises, brushing crumbs off her armor and reaching for her own sword and shield.

She crouches down and scratches behind both Meeko's ears in the way that usually makes the dog flop over with his belly in the air, but today he whines. Dogs are like wolves; they know when something's wrong. Matilda smoothes the fur back, murmuring comforting-soundings words Farkas can't make out, then stands up and turns to him.

He wraps her up tight in his arms, crunching her body against his so hard that the edges of her chestplate threaten to jab through the thin tunic he's wearing and into his ribcage. Doesn't even make him flinch. He's thinking about how exposed her arms are. If he'd known she was going to wear this armor, he would've found some mail sleeves for her. At least some leather. Her fingers aren't covered either, and he can see the gold flash of her marriage band peeking out beneath the edge of her gauntlet.

"I love you," he says. He's not sure exactly when that happened, whether it was before they got married or after or the moment he saw her, but it's the first time he's said it.

"I love you too."

She lifts her face to him while she says it. Even he can read the happiness in her blue eyes, her cold-chapped lips. It can't be the last time he's gonna see it. She's their Harbinger. He kisses her, trying to memorize everything about it, then steps back. "Go. Bring honor to yourself."

She and Lydia hoist their packs and start walking. He knows the look they give each other—that glance you share with a shield-sibling right when you're setting off to find the fight. Just before the gate, Matilda turns back and calls to him, "I can't wait to get back and see your shop!"

"Might sell out if you don't hurry."

She turns away while she's still laughing, and that's the last thing he sees of her before she's gone, that smile of hers in the darkness. The sky is just beginning to change color.

Farkas stays there another minute, rubbing Meeko's head, just being alone in the quiet morning. He doesn't notice Adrianne Avenicci leaning against her wall until she speaks. "Where's your wife going this early?"

No point in lying, Farkas thinks. The whole city will know soon enough, if they don't already. "Windhelm," he answers.

"So it's true, then."

She's the Jarl's steward's daughter. An Imperial. But her husband's a Nord. Whose side does that put her on, he wonders. "Will you fight?"

She stares at him. "The Dragonborn's in Ulfric's army. We've already lost," she says. "All we can do is try to avoid getting killed until Tullius figures that out."


	6. Chapter 6

By nightfall, the price of everything doubles. Half the suppliers turn back on the road, and the rest unload everything they have at almost any price they name; everyone knows it's their last chance. By morning, you can't get a metal ingot in Whiterun at any price. The townspeople have bought everything the Imperials haven't, and there's a line at Avenicci's forge of people melting down whatever they can use to armor themselves or reinforce their walls and doors. The farms outside town were bare enough already, this deep in winter, but they sell off everything they've got before anyone can loot it. The Imperial troops suddenly crowding the streets bring their own supplies, but not much for anyone else. They know they could be waiting out a siege.

Farkas goes out with Torvar on the last job they got before the news, but when they get back, the client has fled and his septims with him. "Guess he'd rather take his chances with the bandits," Farkas says, but he wishes he had the damned coin. No other jobs turn up after that.

By the third day, their new protectors have locked the gates of Whiterun. Imposed a curfew. Started building barricades in the streets. Everyone knows the Dragonborn is waiting outside to storm the city. Nobody gives Farkas any trouble, though there seem to be almost as many guards patrolling back and forth in front of his house as at the Grey-Manes'.

With nothing else to do but spar, he works on his stock. Even without access to a forge, he can still cut armor straps and work weapon grips, make potions with Matilda's dwindling ingredient stash, and carve and restring and polish bows. But having nothing else to do but spar also means that he works almost continuously until he runs out of projects. After that, he borrows some thread and scraps of cloth from Tilma and practices sewing. Small, strong, even stitches. At first he has to make dots in ink on the cloth to mark how long each stitch should be, just like Tilma did when he was a pup. The others make fun of him, but he hears Matilda saying, "Practice! That's all!" and thinks about how much better it would be to make clothes for the shop than buy them. You can take sewing anywhere: inns, caves, old Nord tombs, troll dens, mountaintop strongholds of keepers of ancient dragon lore. Might not be bad to have a hobby other than bludgeoning things.

* * *

Aela's the only one who can get out easily. She slips past the guards in wolf form one night to hunt and comes back to Jorrvaskr laden down with fresh meat and news.

"The Stormcloaks are camped south of the city," she reports as soon as she turns back, still tugging her armor on. "Three catapults and a lot of tents."

"Do they look ready for the battle?" Athis wants to know.

"They're outnumbered. Not too badly; maybe three or four to one. Stormcloak wasn't there, but his general was." With unusual mercy, she glances Farkas's way and continues, "I saw the Harbinger. Not to talk to, but she was there. The rest of them were drinking and singing that song of theirs, and she was outside her tent writing or something."

Farkas presses: "How did she look?"

Aela stares at him. "She looked fine, ice brain. The fighting hasn't even started yet."

He knows that. What he really wants to know is how she's feeling, whether she's getting enough sleep or tossing and turning like he is, whether the camp food is decent, how she thinks the battle will go, what jokes she's thought of about everything around her. Aela can't know any of that, but he'd take anything. How she's wearing her hair today would be enough.

But he's not going to get any of it, so he goes out back to skin the carcass she left by the steps. Seven of them to feed on this, eight if Aela insists on eating again even though she's already torn out most of the throat. If he knows her, she will. It's going to be a lean night.

* * *

It's the fifth day when a knock at the door breaks his concentration and almost makes him place a stitch wrong. As usual, Meeko races him there, barking madly. Farkas just scoops the dog up under one arm and opens the door. It's Ysolda.

"I have a favor to ask," she says hurriedly. "I'm worried about the civilians during the fighting. I'm trying to organize some caches of supplies around the city so we can help people quickly if we need to, but there's not a potion to be had at any shop in Whiterun. Do you have any you can spare?"

"Wait here." He puts Meeko down and goes to the storage room. All the potions he's made are lined up on the table next to the alchemy lab. Farkas sweeps them all up and carries them back out. "Did you bring a bag? Might have one around here if not."

"By Tal—" Ysolda cuts herself off sharply and looks around.

"It's all right," Farkas says.

"I don't have the coin to pay you for all this now."

He shrugs that off. "You don't have to. It's an honorable cause."

She tries to protest for a minute, but then she holds out her basket and he packs the bottles into it. "Thank you so much," she repeats for the third time on her way out. "I won't forget your kindness."

* * *

Ysolda must have told someone, because the next day, Lillith Maiden-Loom comes to ask if he has anything that will protect Olava's house, where she's staying, against fire. Farkas hands her his amulets without even mentioning payment. They're two old women, and with no one allowed to enter or leave the city, no money's coming in from Lilith's stables.

Then Carlotta Valentia wants a dagger. He doesn't hesitate then either, even though she's an Imperial. One look at her thin shoulders and you can tell the vegetable seller is no warrior. What she is, is experienced enough to know that enemy women don't always fare well when their cities fall. Farkas wants to reassure her that Matilda would never let that happen, that she'll consider it a matter of her honor to make sure Ulfric's troops uphold theirs, but he's forced to admit even that's no guarantee. Even the Dragonborn has to sleep sometime.

He doesn't ask who Carlotta plans to use the dagger on if it comes to it, just reminds himself to keep an eye on her house when the fighting starts. And when it's over.

But when Amren comes to ask for nails to reinforce his door, protect his own daughter, Farkas doesn't have any. He looks all over for ingots, ore, anything. Finally he hauls out one of the iron swords and hands it over. "Take this to Warmaiden's or the Skyforge. Either of them will melt it down for you and forge nails with it." The former soldier hesitates before he takes it, but not for long.

After that he stops looking for reasons to convince himself to help people. The iron and steel pieces go quickly—melted and reforged to shore up walls and doors and bar windows. The cloth and leather are cut into bandages and strips to secure them with. He takes a few coins, when people offer them. Most of them don't. He doesn't ask.

"You're too damned kind for your own good," Vilkas complains. Farkas just shrugs.

* * *

People say the Jarl had food stores, but Farkas hasn't seen much from them. He's seen the Imperial reinforcements carrying in supplies—the ones that make it past the Stormcloak raids, at least—and they'll trade food for loyalty. If you're willing to line up in the Wind District, swallow your pride and stick out your hand and swear not to take up arms against the Empire, you can get some of it. And the stronger your oath, the more you get—word is the Battle-Borns have the fullest table in Whiterun. Farkas keeps his honor and lets his stomach rumble.

They keep some stores in Breezehome, but not for a siege; their housekeeping always relied on hunting or eating at Jorrvaskr or at least going to the market every day or two. And so his house starts to run low, like most of the rest of the city. At least it lasts longer than the Mare's stock—the tavern goes through its food in three days. At first people try to fill their half-empty bellies with drink, but the curfew and the Imperials' keen interest in breaking up groups of Nords dry even that up before long. The few Imperial officers relaxed enough to drink during a siege prefer the Drunken Huntsman. Better drink, fewer barbs from Hulda.

"Whiterun was badly prepared," Eorlund pronounces one afternoon when Farkas goes up to get his blade sharpened—not because he's using it, more for something to do that feels useful. "A city this size should have enough stores to last for months, at least. Balgruuf misread Ulfric. Gambled that the war would come as a dagger in the back, not a siege, and sold off everything to arm the city guard against a surprise attack. Fool." That seems to fit with what Farkas saw weeks ago, but Eorlund talks like he thinks Balgruuf always meant to side with the Empire if he had to. Maybe he knew something the rest of them didn't.

The Companions are better provisioned than most, thanks to Tilma's good sense and Aela's ability to sneak out at night and hunt. But Tilma also gives what they can spare when people ask, so in the end they're only a little better fed than anyone else. Only Adrianne Avenicci adds to their stores, passing on extra cheese wedges her father sneaks her from Dragonsreach. She hasn't taken the Imperials' oath—Farkas overheard her telling the Legionnaires exactly what she thought of the damned foolish war when they came to her door to ask—and she tells him quietly that's causing problems for the steward. He still dines at the Jarl's table, though. For now.

"Where is the Dragonborn?" Ysolda hisses to Farkas in the street a week and a half in, just too low for the guard patrolling nearby to hear. Her wrists look almost as thin as her dagger. He tries to think where he can come up with some food before her before she collapses. Can't find any answer. "She must know it's her allies who are being weakened by this siege, not the Imperials. Why doesn't she push the Stormcloaks to attack?"

He doesn't know. They wouldn't just put Matilda in charge, with Stone-Fist there, but he doesn't know what kind of influence she has over him. He does know she'd want to push for an attack as soon as she thought they could win it, but she might be cautious about the Stormcloaks' strength, or overestimate the city's supplies. There's no knowing what kind of information they have. There are too many variables, and they all make his head hurt. But before he can muster any kind of explanation, the guard orders, "You two! No lollygagging."

* * *

Toward the end of the second week, someone comes by after nightfall. "Sit," Farkas orders Meeko as soon as he hears the first knock. And by the gods, the dog actually does it. Even Matilda could only get that to work about half the time, he thinks proudly as he gets up to open the door.

Three Legionnaires in full uniform are standing outside. Two actual Imperials and a Nord. "Are you the Dragonborn's husband?" one of them asks.

Meeko growls. Dogs know when something's wrong, just like wolves. "Sit," Farkas orders again. He has no idea what's coming next. Are they going to tell him Matilda's been captured? Killed? Is he being arrested?

"Aye," he says. Calculates how many of them he could kill, if they call in reinforcements. Twenty? Thirty? He doesn't have a helmet. That's never a problem until you get overwhelmed, but sooner or later, one of them would get in a good strike to the head and it would be over.

"We heard you had a shop here."

"Aye." He manages to stop himself from saying _Sort of_.

"What do you have?"

Oh. They're here to seize his stock. He should probably be flattered. Waste of their time, though. "Not much the Imperial Legion would want," he says. Not that talking's likely to do any good.

The three soldiers look at each other for a minute, and then the one who seems to be their leader—most Imperials don't have beards, so that's no help; it's just that he's doing the most talking—says, "We're not here to provision the army. We're, ah—private customers."

"Our commander doesn't even know we're here," the other Imperial says. The Nord elbows her in the side.

He could take these three, at least. Farkas pushes the door open wider and motions for them to come in. They stand awkwardly in the entrance, looking around like they've never seen a house before. Their shining armor looks out of place against the simple Nordic design of everything else here. Looks new. Farkas would never trust new armor in a battle this important, but maybe it's all they have.

"I'll bring out what I have," he says. Meeko barks. "Sit!" Third time. The dog sits and keeps a suspicious watch on the clanking strangers. Keeping his own eye on his back, Farkas goes into the storage room and loads up a basket with everything he has left that wouldn't help them in a fight—which is most of it by now. He returns to the main room and holds the basket out for the soldiers to see. "Here."

They lean in to look. He likes watching how they react to everything—holding each piece up for the others to see, comparing, talking through where in their houses the pieces could go when they finally get back home. He hears that the Nord man has a husband waiting back in Karthwasten, a miner; that the leader's second child is due in Rain's Hand; that the second Imperial has developed a taste for Nordic mead. They each settle on something: an unenchanted silver necklace for the leader, a cup he added a small garnet to for the other Imperial, a carved wooden bowl for the Nord. All small enough to smuggle in their gear.

"What's your price for these three?" the leader asks him, taking out his coin purse.

"Food," Farkas answers.

"You wouldn't rather have the coin?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing left in the city to spend it on."

"We could sneak out part of our rations for the next few days," the second Imperial says to her comrades. "The quartermaster and I grew up together in Anvil."

The leader shakes his head. "We'll need them."

"The commander says the Stormcloaks won't be ready to attack for another four, five days. We'll have time to get back to full rations before the battle."

The Nord elbows her again. They keep talking in whispers until the leader turns back to him. "We'll return within the hour."

And true to their word, they do. They step inside quickly and pull out the bags hidden behind their shields: a sack of apples, another of potatoes, and a wrapped haunch of meat—rabbit, Farkas can tell without looking at it. A few days of eating well. First thing the next morning, Farkas carries it straight to his shield-siblings, before he has a chance to give it away to anyone else.

* * *

A few more groups sneak to his door the next night, and then they stop—either they decide they need to start saving their rations, or a commander's found out and shut them down. His extra food source has dried up, and so has his stock. Farkas arranges what little he has left in the near-empty storage room, then shuts the door.

* * *

He stays late at Jorrvaskr the night before the first possible day of the battle the Imperials mentioned. Nerves grab hold of him the way they never do before his own battles. He'd have to dodge the guards to get back to Breezehome after the curfew, so he stays, going back down to his own room. Nothing's changed but the few things he moved out. Tilma's kept the dust off. It just feels different. All the years he spent on his own in this room, and now the bed manages to feel small and empty at the same time.

Meeko jumps up as soon as he opens the door, barking wildly; Farkas makes him sit before dropping a leg for him. The dog immediately clamps his meal down with his paws, in case Farkas changes his mind, then digs in. When he finishes, he barks with joy and knocks over a shelf-full of goblets with his tail as thanks. Matilda won't be happy that he's spoiling the dog like this, Farkas thinks. Meeko has already gotten used to sleeping at the foot of the bed.

He isn't tired. He slings his armor off as an acknowledgement that it should be time to sleep, then picks up his lute but puts it down after a couple minutes, not in the mood for any of the songs he knows and not in the mood to learn a new one, either. Meeko is still gnawing on the bones.

There's a knock on the door and Vilkas comes in without waiting. "Are you all right, brother?"

"Fine."

Vilkas digests that. Looks like he's weighing whether it's true. Farkas doesn't know himself. Finally, he says, "Fighting is easy. It's staying your hand that's hard."

"Kodlak taught us that," Farkas says.

"He did." They're silent for a minute, then Vilkas adds, "They were good pieces. Just as you said they would be."

"Aye. They were."

After that, they don't need to say anything else. Vilkas pulls out a half-filled roll of paper, a quill and a bottle of ink, and spreads them out on the small table by the bar to work. He just started a chronicle, beginning with the death of the old High King and continuing through the reappearance of the dragons and the war. His idea was to collect accounts from as many people as possible, but no one in Whiterun feels much like reflecting right now. So far it's a glorified journal.

For his part, Farkas reaches into his pack and pulls out the pieces of wool he's been trying to make into a shirt. Actually, they used to be a shirt—he took one of his old ones apart to see how the pieces were cut, and now he's trying to sew them back together the right way. He's gotten better in the last few weeks. His work still doesn't look like the seams on Matilda's dress, but it holds.

After an hour or so, Vilkas quietly packs up and nods to him before going across the hall. Farkas kicks off his boots and crawls under the furs. Meeko jumps up and starts snoring almost instantly, lying on Farkas's feet so they fall asleep much sooner than the rest of him.

Before he drifts off, he tries to pray to Talos, but like most times, he doesn't know what to say.

* * *

He wakes up to someone shaking his shoulder and a female voice saying his name. "Hunh?" he asks, bleary with sleep. "Matilda?"

"No, dear. It's Tilma," the old servant says. "You'll want to get up. The battle's begun."


	7. Chapter 7

He wears his armor—he doesn't have anything else anyway—and smears war paint around his eyes with a practiced hand, but he leaves his sword in his room, to show he's not fighting. He feels naked without it. In less than a minute he's out on the steps.

The smoke is rising just past the gates. Thick and black and gray, blocking out the sun as it rises. The barricades outside the walls have fallen and the drawbridge is up, that means. He can hear the distant battle as soon as he gets outside, clangs and shouts and the screams of the dying, but he can't see anything from Jorrvaskr's door except waiting Imperials and barricades, so he runs up to the Skyforge. From up there, he has a better view down into the Plains District, and that's where the fighting is, right inside the gates. Right by his house. Catapult fire hails over the walls as he watches. Fire and smoke where it lands—that's burning pitch they're firing. He wonders if the Stormcloaks know that the Dragonborn has a house on the main street and are avoiding it, or if the fire just falls where it falls.

Soon he gets his answer, because a shot hits the priest's house right near Jorrvaskr and the earth shakes as the flames erupt. The priest who's always yelling about Talos. Farkas guesses they didn't hit him on purpose. Whiterun's guards rush in with their buckets of river sand, but it'll still burn for hours where it falls. The Stormcloaks are leading their foot soldiers with the catapult fire, probably trying to distract the guards and hide their rush up with the smoke. It tells Farkas that they must be badly outnumbered; otherwise Stormcloak would have his troops do all their killing face-to-face, if he's as true a Nord as he claims. You honor your enemy by wearing his blood. But maybe a man who would shout his opponent to death in a duel doesn't have much use for honor.

The Imperial archers have the high ground in the Wind District, but the Stormcloaks push up the steps anyway until they meet the enemy steel to steel around the tree. Farkas runs back down to Jorrvaskr, scanning the melee for Matilda.

He picks her out easily at the head of the crush. Not by the armor—the generic steel isn't much different from what the blade-swingers on both sides are wearing—but by the way she moves. And he knew she'd be at the front. The Dragonborn never uses a bow (_can't,_ someone less loyal might've said); does her killing up close. That's not a bad blade he gave her, he notices with professional interest. Good balance: not so much heft that it's hard for her to swing, but enough reach that she's not at a disadvantage. The first time he's actually seen something he made in action.

Lydia is staying close to her side, trying to redirect some of the blows. They're both moving well. Not badly hurt, then. He wonders how many faces they recognize.

The Dragonborn could easily have worn distinctive armor, or left her face uncovered, and no one would have dared to take a swing at her and risk leaving Skyrim to the dragons. She could have stood in the street and shouted until she was hoarse and all her enemies were dead. But she hasn't. Means she knows more about honor than she says, Farkas thinks, unless part of her's just hoping she'll take an arrow to the knee so someone else will have to deal with Ulfric and the dragons. Either way, it's what a warrior should do - accept your share of the danger and fair-fought blood on your blade. But it's hard to watch his wife stagger back under swords and arrows, right herself and then stagger again as another enemy closes in. He swore that his sword stood ready to meet the blood of her foes. Instead it's propped beside his bed.

A hand falls on his shoulder; Farkas looks back and sees his brother standing behind him. They watch the fight together, moving back up the hill alongside the battle so he can follow Matilda. As the Stormcloaks break the ranks of the Imperials in the Wind District, he sees her helm turn toward him, and in that instant he wants to jump down and take up a fallen sword and fight right there at her side, damn Vilkas's history books. But then she turns forward again and charges on toward Dragonsreach. Farkas watches her form grow smaller and smaller as she plows her way up the long steps toward the keep, with bodies on both sides falling and staining the water below red. Then the great doors of the keep open and she and Lydia disappear behind them, and there's nothing more Farkas can do but wait to see which bodies get carried out.

* * *

Most of the dying has already been done by then. The last few skirmishes resolve themselves in cries, and it's the Stormcloaks who hold the city when they're over. Some of them move up into the Cloud District to reinforce the ones inside Dragonsreach. Others begin moving around, tending their wounded, closing the eyes of their dead. A few fall to their knees—in exhaustion or prayer, Farkas isn't sure.

"Come," he says to Vilkas. "Many fought well here today." The Companions had to stay out of the fighting, but that doesn't mean they can't aid in the aftermath. For once his brother follows him. They make their way down from the Skyforge back into Jorrvaskr, where Tilma has already beaten him to the idea. She's waiting by the door with sacks of mead and potions and linen, and a dagger. Vilkas, who's faster, takes a torch first and sets out to relight the braziers that have gone out outside the houses. Most of the winter's snow has melted, but the wounded can still succumb to the cold if they're not kept warm. The smoke is still hard to move through, but you can see your way without choking if you stay low to the ground.

The closest soldier is an Imperial, but _Great Harbingers _says the Companions are "impartial arbiters of honor." He should know; he reread that part five times, looking for loopholes. Farkas goes to his knees next to the man and looks at the wound. A nasty slash to the leg just above the knee. Someone managed to get him around the skirt—knew right where to aim. Could be Matilda's work, for all he knows.

He's done this so many times before that it's almost automatic. Clear the wound. Apply pressure or wrapping. Give a potion. Working gently, he pushes the armored skirt back, peels the slashed trousers back from the wound and works the dagger into the frayed ends to cut the fabric around the damaged area so it doesn't get in the way. You can lose a leg or worse from an injury like this—worse would be if it got infected. Farkas gingerly shifts the soldier's leg up so he can get the wrapping all the way around it. Ties it tight. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see his shield-siblings and the townspeople doing the same thing he is. Or trying to put out the flames from the pitch.

He reaches into his sack and rummages through the potions, feeling for a bottle with slanted sides—the heavy-duty ones. He finds one, bites the cork off and spits it out. "Here. Drink," he says, holding it up to the Imperial's mouth. The man—barely more than a pup, really—seems barely conscious, but he cracks open his lips and Farkas eases the end of the bottle up, pouring the liquid in. The unnerving sound of flesh knitting itself together leaks out from under the bandages.

"There. You should be all right now," he tells the Imperial. The man nods vaguely. Farkas is about to get up and move on when a cry goes up all around him, and then falls deadly silent. Suddenly all heads seem to be turned toward the keep.

He follows their gazes: the doors have opened and figures are appearing. As they come down the stairs toward the city, he sees that Balgruuf is at their head, followed by his people. They're surrounded by Stormcloak guards. Behind them is Vignar the Revered, and Ulfric's general Stone-Fist next to him. Behind them—and for the second time since dawn, Farkas lets out a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding—is Matilda. Lydia is at her side.

At the first landing, where everyone in the city can see him, Vignar raises one fist. Dangling from it is an amulet of Talos.

The Stormcloaks roar.

Matilda's helm is gone and her armor is more red than silver, though only the blood on her face and one arm looks like her own. She lifts her good hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she gazes down over the crowd. Stone-Fist shoves her forward, and the roar grows louder. She holds the hand up in acknowledgement, but keeps turning her head until she's looking in his direction. She's too far away for him to see her face clearly, but the red stain on her cheek moves. It might be a smile.

"Wait." From right in front of him, the Imperial speaks for the first time. His voice is a dry croak. "I know you."

"Yeah?" Farkas asks. He's never seen the man before in his life. At least as far as he can remember. Someone he met on a job? A failed Companions recruit? Not one of the ones who bought something; he'd remember those faces.

"Yeah. You're the Dragonborn's husband."

He's half a second from getting annoyed, but then he thinks - by the gods, better than being the Dragonborn's widower.

"That," he tells the Imperial as he eases himself off his armored knees to move to the next one, "and I own a shop."

* * *

But then they go back inside Dragonsreach, and it's hours before he finally sees her and Lydia coming down the great stairs.

Matilda's wiped down her blade and armor, but gore is still caked in the joints where you can't get easily. The wound he saw earlier is high on her lightly-protected left arm. Someone wrapped it badly and the cloth is soaked red. It'll scar now even with a potion, Farkas knows. Another cut across her cheek looks like the work of a dagger. Her helm is still missing, and her hair is matted with sweat and traces of blood. She's limping a little. Even at a distance, she smells exactly the way you'd expect someone to smell after almost three weeks in an army camp and a battle.

He takes a run at her anyway.

She speeds up too when she sees him but Farkas beats her to it, colliding with her in the middle of the street and crushing her so close he could almost dent her armor. He kisses her dirt-streaked forehead and strokes her hair.

When he finally lets her go, she reaches into her pack and holds out a crumpled roll of paper. Farkas rolls it open and sees that she must have drawn a hundred wolves, and the last one -

- still looks a bit like a pup's idea of a Khajiit. But maybe an older pup, at least.

He can't stop the chuckle in time and she scowls at him through the grime and blood on her face. "Just need more practice!" she snaps. "That's all!" And all of a sudden she's laughing and crying at the same time.

* * *

He gets them both inside, holds Meeko off, gives them the drinks and potions he's been saving all day, finds cloths and soap and clean clothes, heats pots of water on the fire for baths, hauls one into the storage room for Lydia, pulls the second one off the flames and helps Matilda get her armor off. He sets it aside; time enough to clean it tomorrow. She strips off the wool underlayers she's standing in only her bandage and wedding ring. They're both quiet as he helps her unpick the braiding in her tangled hair, and she kneels to soak it in the pot. Farkas sees the color of the water as she straightens up again and puts a second pot on.

She lets him take the cloth and wash her after she finishes sponging off the cut on her face. He's good at it, knows how to clean away the worst of the tension with the blood and sweat until her hands fall open and she smiles wearily at him, smelling like lavender. When they finish, she stumbles into smallclothes and a fresh pair of wool pants, but he stops her before she can put the shirt on and starts unwinding the bandage from her arm.

"Who got you?" he asks while he does it.

"I don't know about the arm. Whoever it was is dead now," she says shortly. She points to her cheek. "This was Irileth."

She probably has Irileth to thank for the loss of her helm too. The injury's not bad, but it must've hurt more than the depth of the actual cut makes it look. He knows how much she respected Balgruuf's housecarl. Whiterun's heroes, the two of them, first warriors to kill a dragon in ages. That means something, he knows; made them shield-sisters of a kind. Farkas doesn't ask how Irileth fared in the battle.

He wonders if she thought about that before the battle. Waiting through the siege in Whiterun, he's seen the angry looks, heard the whispers of "traitor." There are people in this city who won't drink to her name anymore, whose grandchildren's doors will still be closed to her. He doesn't think any of that would have stopped her. He just wonders if she's ready.

He has to clean the wound on her arm now. It's going to hurt. Farkas picks up the bottle of mead from the table and hands it to her; she takes a long drink and wipes her mouth, then nods at him. Right as he's about to start, he remembers something Tilma used to do when he was a pup. "Tell me about being in the camp," he says. Distract her by talking. It never did much for him—took him too long to think of something to say. But it always worked on Vilkas.

"Like—ahh, by Talos, Farkas!"

"Keep talking," he says, sponging the flecks of leather out of the cut.

She clenches her fists and continues, through her teeth. "—like any group of warriors, in some ways. Mead-swilling—foul-smelling—boasting—gah." She gasps as he takes the cloth away. He rinses it, adds a little more soap, and starts up again. "But the waiting—is enough to drive you mad. And you watch everyone's faces in the firelight and wonder—which of them will die." He digs deeper than he meant to. Matilda sucks in air and jerks back against his grip. He thinks those might be tears again, from the fresh pain or from simple exhaustion, but glance up to check and he'll put a finger wrong and make it worse. "Makes me grateful—for true shield-siblings. For you."

"Done," he says, dropping the cloth in the pot. Her shoulders slump in relief. He takes a fresh piece of linen and ties her arm up properly. Matilda reaches for her shirt, pulls it on and half-falls into her chair. He pulls his closer, leaving the pots for now. "Rough few weeks, then."

"Not all of it. We ate better than you did, from the look of it." She leans on her bad arm without thinking, winces and leans the other way. "How was it, Farkas?"

He tells her everything, using more words than normal. The dwindling provisions, the things he gave away, the food he got from the Imperials, Aela's hunts, how he learned to sew. The way he missed her.

"So you gave away all your stock," she says when he finishes.

"All but a few things."

"But your shop…."

"It'll take a while to rebuild my stock. But I'll do it." He puts one hand on her knee, just to be touching her. Warm. Here. And alive. Maybe her god protected her after all. "And, uh…maybe you can help. If you find anything that might sell."

Matilda looks at him with her hand stopped halfway to his. "I thought you wanted to do it yourself."

"Wanted to prove I could do it on my own. Not just be the Dragonborn's husband." Farkas catches her fingers, laces his own into them. "Had some time to think about it, these last few weeks. Doesn't sound as bad as I thought."

As he watches, a smile breaks through the tiredness on her face and she starts to laugh, longer and louder than what he said deserves, but right now that doesn't seem to matter much. "Well, now you're the shopkeeper's assistant's husband, shopkeeper. We'll make our fortunes and retire, if only we can find a damned thing in this city to sell."


End file.
